


Katabasis

by orphan_account



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Daemons, Durin Feels, Gold Sickness, M/M, Mystery, Parallel Universes, Romance, Slow Burn, The Underworld
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 21:49:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 53,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1023792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Battle of Five Armies, Bilbo lies as still as death, and no earthly force will wake him. When a ghostly apparition offers Thorin the chance to recover Bilbo's absent spirit from the underworld, he accepts without hesitation. </p><p>So begins the second Quest of Thorin's lifetime. </p><p>Through half-remembered dreams and terrifying nightmares, beyond strange worlds to stranger shores, the Heirs of Durin will tirelessly, doggedly search for their burglar.</p><p>This is their task, their penance: find Bilbo, or else be condemned to wander forever more, never to return home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't get this out of my head. This comes from a conversation I had with Lina (dwimmerlaiks) after the second trailer was released, and its kind of...exploded from there.
> 
> This is posted with heartfelt thanks to Kelsey, who helped me to shape a story out of what was, initially, just thoughts floating around without any real structure <3

Beneath carven stone and sheer rock, under the immeasurable weight of the earth suspended by Dwarven ingenuity, there lay a hobbit who would not wake.

The Lonely Mountain echoed with life, for by the steady hands of the Dwarves the kingdom of Erebor was being made anew. The great gates, flanked by its colossal guardians of stone, stood open day and night, welcoming its returning people to the comforting dark of its halls. At all hours the belly of the mountain rang with joyous voices and hammer-blows, and the deep depths glowed crimson-red with the light of blazing forge fires.

And yet, even as the Dwarves laboured, and were happy in their work (for Dwarves are always happiest when they have work), and made their pleasure at the reclamation of their home known, there were some among them who could not fully enjoy the celebrations in good conscience. For while the Dwarves of Erebor laughed and sang and feasted in their hallowed halls, setting the cavernous walls echoing with the sounds of merriment, deep, deep in the dark of the mountain, there was a room that stood silent and still, in stubborn contrast to the city that surrounded it.

At the heart of the mountain a hobbit slept, and he would not wake.

When the Battle of Five Armies had been won and Azog’s forces utterly decimated, the mountainside had been left drenched in blood, its foothills obscured by the bodies of the fallen, the Desolation of Smaug made into a graveyard for Man, Elf, Dwarf and orc alike. From that bloody wreckage, a single hobbit had been recovered. It had been Bofur who had found him, half-buried under the body of a fallen elf, the hobbit’s mithril shirt shining at his throat, the bright sparkle of the metal enough to catch Bofur’s eye in amongst the muck and grime and horrors of the battlefield. With a great cry the dwarf had hastened to free his friend from the litter of corpses, fearful that Bilbo, too, had lost his life. But scratches and bruises aside, Bilbo had been miraculously unharmed, his life no doubt saved by his mithril shirt, his cunning and his magic ring – and likely in that order. And yet, as impervious as the chainmail had proved to be, it had not been able to Bilbo from a simple blow to the head.

With help from his cousin, Bofur had carried Bilbo to the healing tents and there, surrounded by his relieved friends, the hobbit had slept. And slept. And _slept_ , with no sign of waking. Óin had driven himself to exhaustion by nursing Bilbo day and night, attempting every method and medication his keen mind could think of, putting his long years of experience to the test - but still Bilbo would not wake. Gandalf had sat with the old dwarf, trying magicks and medicine in equal measure – Elvish medicine, no doubt, with a touch of something else he refused to put name to – and puffing away at his pipe. But even the resourceful wizard could do nothing for his friend, and his countenance had grown graver and graver with every day that had passed.

Even the Elves had attempted to rouse the halfling, though only the once, for their visit to Bilbo’s tent had been so fraught with tension that to try again would have been foolhardy in the extreme, so strained were relations between the races.

Bilbo had slept through it all without a twitch or a flicker of life, oblivious to the efforts of his friends and allies. Despondent and helpless, the Dwarves had been left with no choice but to carry Bilbo’s body into the shelter of the mountain, there to set him in room of his own, hidden away from prying eyes and attended to daily by Óin.

Now, two months later, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield still found itself short one member, and their hard-won victory was blunted by grief. 

For a hobbit lay at the heart of the mountain, and he would not wake.

 

 

The room had, once upon a time, been the private study of Thorin’s grandmother. It was one of those odd curiosities that hardly anyone outside of the Royal Family knew about - a small, hidden-away space with only one entrance, deliberately placed in what Thorin’s grandmother had considered ‘the heart of the mountain’. She had been very particular about the sparseness of its decoration, insistent on bare walls and minimal architectural accents, and as a result the room was austere in the extreme - at least in comparison to the rest of the expansive Royal rooms. Thorin remembers that she would often disappear to this room for hours on end, to think and sit in silence, musing over the day’s difficult decisions and upcoming trade negotiations. She had loved her family dearly, and her husband had without a doubt been her One, but she had also been the kind of dwarf who had needed a couple of hours every day on her own, away from the bustle of court life.

The rotting furniture had all been cleared away, her books returned to the family library. In their place at the very centre of the room stood a makeshift bed. On said bed, wrapped in bed sheets and with his head pillowed on a cushion, lay Bilbo Baggins.

Bilbo’s skin was pale, stretched too tight over the bones of his face. Time, illness and lack of proper sustenance had carved away the plumpness of his cheeks, unearthing hard cheekbones and sharp, jutting angles. His eyes were sunken, his head of curls washed and clean but lacking the sheen of the healthy. Someone – likely Ori – had braided one side of Bilbo’s hair, just in front of his ear. It surely had to have been Ori - no one else could have so cleverly combined the braids for _friendship, hope_ and _good luck_ , weaving them together so each style was recognisable, yet intermingled to create a new, unique braid.

By the hobbit’s bedside stood a King.

Thorin had no clue as to why he came here each and every day, after the sixth bell but before the seventh that heralded the end of the work day and the beginning of the evening meal. Such uncertainty over his own inclinations annoyed Thorin almost to distraction, and caused a niggling sensation at the back of his mind. Besides, it was hardly as though Thorin’s visit ever had any effect, or would in the future. Bilbo never stirred, never gave any indication as to whether his state would ever change. But day after day Thorin found himself putting aside his work, sparing a few minutes to stand by the hobbit in utter silence, to leave with his heart heavy and yet strangely satisfied by this adherence to what he assured himself was his duty. He comforted himself with the thought that, had any other member of the Company been in the same position, he would have done exactly the same thing.

Though the difference was that he and Bilbo could hardly be called friends, not when they had parted on such terrible terms. 

But they _had_ shared a Journey together, and Bilbo’s friendship with the rest of the Company had been unaffected by his exile, if their constant visiting was anything to go by. Dwarven duty dictated that they honour that, although none of them knew how to solve this dilemma they found themselves in. They could not send Bilbo home to his family – Óin doubted Bilbo could survive the journey back, especially not in the onset of winter. Even if they could, who would look after him? There was no wife, no children awaiting Bilbo’s return, and the hobbit had never named any close family members. They could not bury him. The thought was too horrifying to contemplate. Even now Bilbo’s chest rose and fell in tiny slivers of breath, noticeable only under scrutiny.

They could do little else but continue to nurse him, though even this decision was deeply unsatisfying, for while Bilbo continued to breathe, day by day he grew thinner and weaker, in spite of all of Óin’s efforts to the contrary. One day, Thorin, knew, the hobbit’s body would simply stop breathing, unable to work up the strength to expand his lungs.

It was, he thought, entirely appropriate for Bilbo to be as much of a nuisance in unconsciousness as he had been awake.

It was warm here, though the walls and high ceilings were hardly of any use in the retention of heat. But the forges had been awoken in Erebor’s depths, and there was not an inch of the mountain that was not suffused with warmth. Still, the hobbit might soon need furs in addition to his bed sheets, and Thorin made a mental note to bring this to Óin’s attention when he saw the dwarf next. It was quiet, too, save for the flickering of the torches in their brackets. He felt cumbersome and overdressed in his courtly armour in a room so devoid of decoration, and he was glad that he was entirely alone so that no one could bear witness to his discomfort, or his awkward stance by Bilbo’s bed as a result of his refusal to sit on the spare chair.

But, unbeknownst to Thorin, he was not as alone as he hoped, for over by the arched doorway stood two dwarves, hidden away in the shadows of the corridor.

‘What’s he doing?’ whispered Kíli.

Fíli signed back at him. _Shut up_.

Kíli shot him a look, but raised his hands to sign, _this is boring_.

His brother glared at him. _This was your idea,_ he said, his hands moving quickly and silently through the Iglishmêk. _What were you expecting?_

Kíli let out a small sigh, subsiding into silence once more. After a minute of watching Thorin stand beside Bilbo’s bed, he said, _I would have thought he’d at least talk or._ He trailed off with a shrug, hands falling to his side.

 _We need to leave,_ said Fíli.

Kíli didn’t bother with signing his vehement agreement. He gave a sharp nod, conveying his confusion at his Uncle’s strange behaviour through his expression. Fíli rolled his eyes in response, as if to say, _it’s Thorin, what did you expect?_

They turned to depart, their tread careful, but before they could steal away from the shelter of the shadows, Thorin suddenly turned on his heel and started to march straight for them. There was now no way that Kíli and Fíli could escape without being seen, and a hurried, flurried series of hand gestures and pointed looks followed in quick succession, the brothers trying to desperately decide on a plan of action before their Uncle discovered them.

They needn’t have bothered. Thorin paused, his stride faltering, coming to stand halfway between the bed and the doorway. Kíli and Fíli froze, thinking they had been spotted, but their Uncle’s attention was clearly elsewhere, and to their surprise he began to speak aloud into the deathly quiet of the room.

‘I have been thinking,’ he said with uncharacteristic hesitance. ‘I have been considering that, perhaps…perhaps if…’ he trailed off, his voice echoing faintly on the stone walls.

‘And at last, you begin to understand,’ said a voice.

Thorin whipped around, Orcrist out of its sheath and in his hand in the space of a heartbeat, the metal singing as it was drawn free to be held defensively in front of his body, focus entirely on the voice’s source, which had issued from beyond Bilbo’s bed.

And he gaped at what he saw there.

A tall figure stepped forwards, as tall as an Elf but with the blunted ears of a Man, and utterly unlike anything Thorin had seen before. Ragged, bleached-white robes trailed out behind her, dragging over the floor in a rasp. Her dress was too big by far for her starved frame, and hung loose about her hips and shoulders. Her pale, pale skin was stretched too tightly over her bones, her clavicles protruding sharply, the top of her ribcage visible under her shifting, translucent skin. Lank, long white hair fell heavily over her narrow shoulders, and her face held the suggestion of beauty, and youth, once, but gauntness had robbed any hint of it from her visage.

‘Who are you?’ Thorin demanded of the spectre, his grip on Orcrist never faltering.

She smiled, a bare movement of her bloodless lips, and raised a spider-like hand to gesture.

Twin cries of aggression erupted from behind Thorin. Kíli and Fíli burst forward from their hiding place, standing defensively either side of Thorin, a sword in Fíli’s hand, a throwing axe in the other, Kíli with an arrow notched and at full draw.

Thorin would find time to berate them for their spying later.

The woman’s hand paused in its rise, fluttered back to her side. ‘Peace, heirs of Durin,’ she said, her voice a bare, grating whisper.

‘Step away from him!’ snapped Kíli.

‘The hobbit,’ she said, turning to look down at Bilbo, ‘has nothing to fear from me.’

She stepped forwards, towards Bilbo's bed. Thorin let out a shout and sprung forward to intercept her, but Kíli’s arrow and Fíli’s throwing axe got there first. Both passed through her and continued, their flights uninterrupted until they hit the far wall with a clatter.

The woman, as though nothing untoward had occurred, placed a hand on Bilbo’s forehead, her touch light. Kíli immediately took another arrow from his quiver, but uncertainty now clouded his face, and he kept darting quick looks towards Thorin every few seconds.

She straightened gracefully. ‘You cannot hurt me. I am unwilling to hurt you,’ she said. ‘It seems we are at an impasse.’

‘Who are you?’ said Thorin.

‘It does not matter,’ she said.

‘What do you _want_?’ said Fíli.

Her grey, hollow eyes flicked over to Fíli, and Thorin had to restrain from instinctively putting himself between Fíli and the apparition.

‘A better question,’ she said, and Thorin thought he saw something like malicious humour in her impassive expression. 

‘I am here to offer you a choice.’

‘Whatever you are offering,’ growled Thorin, ‘we will have _none_ of it.’

‘Do not be so hasty, King Under the Mountain. What I offer is not a gift, freely given, or easily won. I am merely here to point the way.’

‘To what?’ said Fíli.

She stalked forwards, stepping around the end of the bed. The stubborn Dwarves held their ground, not budging an inch, and she came to a stop a few paces in front of them. Thorin saw that her feet were bare and mired in mud, her calves streaked with dirt.

‘Your friend hovers between life and death,’ she said. ‘He has not yet reached Mandos’ Halls, but given time, he will. But it does not have to be so.’

‘What do you mean?’ prompted Kíli, frowning down the length of his drawn arrow, which was still pointed unerringly at her heart.

‘His spirit no longer inhabits his body. It is…elsewhere. Waiting.’ She cocked her head to one side, as if listening for something only she could hear. Thick ropes of hair shifted over her shoulders at the movement, and Thorin could have sworn he heard the tendons and muscles of her thin neck creak and strain. 

‘This is why he does not wake. But his spirit can be…retrieved.’

Fíli gave a little shake of his head, drawn in by her whispering words in spite of himself. ‘How?’ he asked, the question slipping out against his will.

‘Enough!’ snapped Thorin, ‘I say again, _we do not want what you offer_. Leave us in peace.’

Scorn slipped into her countenance.

‘Would you leave him to die before his time?’ she said, and her soft, rasping voice had taken on a hard edge. ‘Are you content to sit idly by and do nothing while he wastes away? I offer you the chance to put things right. Would you refuse it so easily?’

Thorin was silent. The tip of Orcrist began to fall slowly towards the floor.

‘Why help us? What reason is there to trust you?’ said the King after a moment of quiet.

‘I will not say. You must accept that I merely want to help, and my reasons for doing so are my own. I say again, all I can do is show you the way. The rest is up to you.’ Slowly, she raised her arm to point to the door behind them.

Kíli lowered his bow and turned to look. Thorin barked out something harsh to him in Khuzdul at such foolish behaviour – his nephew should know better than to turn his back on an enemy. But Fíli was soon following, having caught sight of his brother’s expression.

‘Thorin,’ said Fíli quietly. ‘Thorin, _look_.’

‘What is it?’ said Thorin.

‘The corridor…it’s _gone_ ,’ answered Kíli.

Thorin glared at the woman, heart full to the brim with suspicion.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean exactly that. It’s not there any more.’

‘Kíli, that is imposs-‘ said Thorin, finally turning around, and his assertions died in his throat.

The corridor, lined with torches blazing cheerfully, was gone. In its place was…nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not even the light from the room seemed to be able to penetrate the endless darkness that lay beyond the threshold. Thorin shuddered, his mind trying - and failing - to explain the disturbing emptiness.

‘You will find many things along the way that are impossible,’ said the spectre, interrupting their shocked silence, ‘should you chose this path.’

‘What…what _is_ it?’ croaked Fíli.

‘It is a road, between this life and the next. Step through that door and you will find yourself in another place entirely.’

‘A road to where?’ said Thorin.

‘To the hobbit,’ said the woman simply.

Fíli let out a noisy breath, looking in askance to Thorin.

‘The way is fraught with danger, and strife,’ she said when Thorin said nothing. ‘It will not be easy. You may fail - it is likely you will. In all the Ages of this world, only a handful of people have ever walked this path.’

‘How many returned?’ asked Kíli. He was still staring into the void, expression lost.

‘None. Save one.’

‘Who?’

‘It is of little consequence,’ she said with a shake of her head.

‘This is not possible,’ Thorin murmured, ‘I have never heard of such a thing.’

‘And yet, here you are. In this, Thorin, as in all else, let your heart rule your head. You know I speak the truth.’

Thorin stood, Orcrist in hand, saying nothing, and the woman hammered the last nail home on the coffin:

‘I ask you, Thorin Oakenshield: how far would you go for the life of one hobbit?’

Fíli caught Kíli’s eye, and saw his own distress written across his brother’s face. They watched, helplessly, as the latent suspicion slipped from Thorin’s expression and his chin lifted, his stance settling into something very familiar to Kíli and Fíli both: resolve.

‘You must tell Balin of all that has happened here,’ said Thorin. ‘You must tell Dain, too. I do not know how long this path is, or if I shall ever return.’

He turned back to look over his shoulder at the woman, sheathing Orcrist.

‘I cannot tell you how long it will take,’ she said in answer to the unaired question, ‘or if you will be successful in your task. Even if you should reach the lands where he waits, the hobbit may not want to return. You must convince him otherwise.’

Thorin gave a small nod, his eyes never once alighting on Bilbo’s sleeping form. He put a one hand on each of his nephews’ shoulders, looking at them in turn.

‘You will stay here,’ he said.

‘Thorin-‘ began Fíli, but Thorin quelled his protests with a look.

‘Erebor needs you. _I_ need you to stay here.’

‘But we could help,’ said Kíli, tone sharp with anger, ‘you can’t do this alone.’

‘I can, and I will. You will obey me in this,’ he said tersely, ‘it may be the last order I give to you, and you _will_ adhere to it. Understood?’

They nodded, clearly unhappy but unable to argue with their King.

In contrast to his harsh words, Thorin pulled them both forwards into a tight, brief embrace, releasing them after a moment and turning away to face the darkness. He reached inside his heavy coat, drawing out a small bead from an inside pocket. He held it in his palm, clenching his hand into a fist so tightly that the pattern from the bead would surely be imprinted on his skin.

‘If I don’t return,’ said Thorin, ‘tell your mother what happened here. Tell her I… tell her I had no choice.’

With that he strode forwards, into the darkness. As soon as he stepped into the strange nothingness that lay beyond the door, his form vanished entirely from Kíli and Fíli’s sight.

The room returned to its unsettling quiet once more. The darkness remained. Kíli glanced at where the apparition had stood watch, expecting her to have vanished altogether, her task complete. But he almost flinched when he saw her still standing by Bilbo’s bed, something akin to humour crinkling the edges of her dull eyes.

Kíli looked at the threshold.

‘He’ll be very angry,’ he said, casually.

‘Furious,’ agreed Fíli.

‘I don’t think he’ll ever forgive us.’

‘Probably not.’

A pause.

‘Still, though,’ said Kíli. ‘Can’t let him go alone.’

They looked at each other. A wild, reckless grin lit up Kíli’s face. A small smile graced Fíli’s.

Fíli looked back to where Bilbo slept on, oblivious to all that had passed.

‘Sit tight, Bilbo,’ he said. ‘We’re coming for you.’

And together, they stepped over the threshold.

 

 


	2. Chapter 1

Stepping into the darkness was akin to being submersed in water without getting wet. It was the same sensation of pressure on his skin, enclosing him completely until he was forced to shut his eyes against it. It hardly mattered if his eyes were open or not, in any case – the world that surrounded him was as dark as the inside of his eyelids.

He strode forward, not allowing himself to falter even for a second. Two steps more and without warning the pressure dissipated altogether, replaced by the feel of fresh air against his face and hands. Thorin took a deep breath and opened his eyes, and found that he was standing in the middle of a forest.

Impossible. But in some way it was comforting; the very fact that he was standing here, miles from Erebor in the blink of an eye meant that the apparition had, in part at least, been telling the truth.

Tall, gnarled trees surrounded him on all sides, and their trunks and green-brown leaves were drained of colour, as though they had faded under the pale sunlight that fell through the canopy. The ground was uneven and hilly, and there was no path to be seen. It was as quiet as Mirkwood, and Thorin did not like it one bit.

Five seconds later, Kíli and Fíli appeared out of thin air directly behind Thorin.

He should have known better than to think they would not follow, but anger flooded him all the same.

‘A forest?’ said Kíli, ‘this better not-‘

‘How _could_ you?’ snapped Thorin, interrupting Kíli’s wide-eyed observation of their surroundings. ‘What in the name of Mahal do you think you are doing here?’

He watched, detached, as Kíli cowed at the vehement anger in his voice, but only for a moment – a very familiar stubbornness swept it aside. Fíli was no better, his face a mask of stony-eyed resolve. It stoked the fires of Thorin’s anger at them even higher.

‘I asked you to stay behind. I _ordered_ you. I am disappointed in the both of you. I would expect such foolishness from Kíli, but not from _you_ , Fíli.’

‘Thorin, we couldn’t let you-‘

‘I will not hear your excuses. You have left Erebor without a King, and with no word of our intent. What do you think will happen, Kíli? They will think us dead, or kidnapped. The whole of Erebor will turn itself inside out looking for us. Did you not think of the consequences?’

Kíli’s head lowered, and _there_ was the shame that Thorin had expected.

‘No, you did not. Erebor is unstable enough as it is. Now you have brought chaos and confusion to the mix.’

‘Thorin,’ said Fíli at last, ‘Balin will know what to do, and Daín left the mountain not two days ago – he can be easily recalled and asked to stand in as regent. He and the Company will not allow Erebor to fall in our absence.’

Fíli paid no attention to the incredulous look his brother shot at him. His gaze was steady and strong, and did not falter, even in the face of Thorin’s disappointment.

‘Would you so easily give up your birthright?’ said Thorin in a low hiss. ‘You speak as though you have thought this through, Fíli, but I know you have not. Your reasoning was made up in mere seconds.’

He shook his head, at a loss at what to do with the both of them.

‘The way back’s closed,’ said Fíli. ‘You are angry at us, which is only right, and I am sorry we disobeyed you-‘

‘Yes, I _am_ sorry.’

‘-but we have no choice but to press on with you. What’s done is done.’

‘If you think every decision can be made on a whim, and then carry on without regret, then you are far from ready to be Crown Prince of Erebor,’ said Thorin tersely, turning to walk away, but not before he saw the hurt flash across Fíli’s face.

He kept walking, into the forest, eager to have some manner of release for his anger. He had not felt like this for many weeks, and the deep thrum of anger in his gut unnerved him. After a few moments, he heard the tell-tale crunch of two pairs of boots stomping over the hard ground, his nephews left with no choice but to follow him.

They marched in a self-imposed silence that neither Kíli nor Fíli dared break. Thorin was quite content to let them both stew in their own thoughts for a while, and think over the consequences of their actions. Fíli, especially, had surprised him by coming here. He had thought his eldest sister-son had grown out of the impulsiveness of his youth as a result of their journey, but he was clearly mistaken. It was a side of Fíli’s character that he would surely have to control, if he ever hoped to succeed Thorin as King.

The forest grew thicker as they walked, and when Thorin glanced up once or twice to the thick ceiling of leaves, he saw nothing but slate-grey sky above. It was, thankfully, less oppressive than Mirkwood here, but unlike Mirkwood there was a distinct lack of sound – not a hint of a bird, nor any small creature hurrying through the undergrowth. There was only the occasional rustle from a falling leaf, and the sound of their heavy boots snapping twigs underfoot.

They began to descend downhill, the land becoming more and more uneven and stony, full of sudden, steep hills and rocky outcrops. There was nothing to record time by – the sun never made an appearance in the blank sky above, and the light never dimmed. Thorin, his ire settling into a background buzz, began to think of supplies. While he was not hungry yet, by nightfall he surely would be, and knowing Kíli and Fíli they would be hungrier still. But with no hint of game – not even a footprint or tell-tale droppings on the ground – he wondered what they might eat. They hadn’t even passed any berries or fruits. The forest seemed completely barren, save for the dull leaves on the trees.

‘How,’ started Kíli hesitantly, breaking the silence at last, ‘how do you know where we’re going?’

The question made Thorin pause. Until now, he had simply picked a direction and set off, intent on cooling his anger. Now that Kíli had questioned it, he realised that they hadn’t been going in circles, as is common when a dwarf tries to navigate through a forest without a path or a map. They were instead heading in one distinct direction.

‘I don’t know that we are going anywhere,’ said Thorin over his shoulder, his voice flat, ‘I only know that we couldn’t stay in one place.’

‘But we’re heading _somewhere_ ,’ Kíli insisted, his tone less hesitant now Thorin had responded. ‘We’re not going around and around in circles. So, how can you tell?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Thorin, and he hated every word of it. 

He knew, without even looking, that Kíli and Fíli were signing behind his back. He paid it no mind, focusing instead on the certain knowledge that they were heading the right direction. He could not explain how he knew, and if he tried to put it into words he would likely fail to explain the way that all of his well-honed instincts were all but screaming at him that this was the right path.

He was about to tell them to keep moving, if only to stop their secret conversation behind his back, but a sudden, brutal tug deep in the very centre of his chest sent him stumbling, and he doubled-over, reeling in something like pain, but not quite.

‘Thorin!’ said Fíli, he and his brother hurrying forward to help him, hands straying towards weapons, ‘what-‘

But then Fíli was doubling over with a cry, throwing out a hand to stop himself from falling, his fingers digging into the bark of the nearest tree. Kíli, terrified, glanced back and forth between them both, hands hovering between Uncle and brother. He did not have long to feel helpless – soon he himself was slumping, clutching at his chest, gasping for breath.

It felt as though someone had reached into Thorin’s ribcage, through bone and muscle, to take a hold of his heart and _pull_. He gritted his teeth, hand fumbling for Kíli’s shoulder through the haze of sensation. He couldn’t stand a moment more of it, and then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it vanished completely.

Thorin took a breath though gritted teeth. ‘Are you alright,’ he demanded, ‘are you _alright_?’ he said again when they failed to respond.

Fíli raised a hand. His face was too pale by far. ‘I’m fine, though I’ve no clue as to what just happened.’

‘Kíli?’

‘Me too,’ Kíli said from his seat on the forest floor, taking great gulps of air. ‘What…what on Middle Earth was _that_?’

‘I don’t know,’ Thorin said again.

‘Were we under attack? Was it a spell?’ suggested Kíli.

Fíli gave a little shrug of his shoulders and helped Kíli to his feet. Thorin straightened, scanning the trees for any sign of life, but no matter how much he strained his eyes, he found no sign of anything untoward.

‘It’s passed, whatever it was,’ said Fíli.

‘Let’s just hope it won’t return. Perhaps this is a cursed patch of land,’ suggested Thorin, ‘it might be wise to move on, if you are both well enough to walk.’

‘We’re well. Just a little unnerved,’ said Kíli, rubbing at his chest, his mouth turned down at the edges.

‘Lead on,’ said Fíli.

‘Keep your eyes sharp, and your weapons to hand,’ Thorin said, and recommenced their march.

After a few minutes more of walking, the land banked suddenly downhill, and a low-lying mist began to form through the trees, casting a haze over the forest and blurring the already weak light. Their line of sight was already hampered by the trees; mist on top of that was hardly helpful, and it was growing thicker and thicker by the second. Thorin threw off his previous introspection and focused on their surroundings, on every rustle of the leaves and every shadow. He was so alert, so tense, that when something did happen to break the quiet, his heart skipped a beat in surprise.

A high, piercing call echoed through the forest.

Thorin shared a glance with each of his nephews. The sound was utterly unmistakable to each of them. _Wolf_.

‘Clearly, we are not as alone as I first thought,’ said Thorin, before saying, _stay quiet, stay low_ in Iglishmek.

Wolves were not often a threat to Dwarves. The two species tended to stay firmly out of each other’s way, save for a few incidences of livestock being preyed upon during particularly harsh winters. But in this previously empty forest, Thorin was taking no chances. They had already had one unexplained attack, and he wouldn’t put it past this strange place to have wolves that would be so bold as to prey upon Dwarves.

The howl died away, and was not joined in song by another of its pack. Perhaps it was a lone wolf, then. Even better. The three of them could certainly take down a single wolf, even in a setting where a sharp-eyed animal would have the advantage.

They started forwards again, their tread as quiet as they could manage.

A series of barks and odd yips, from somewhere deep in the forest, startled Kíli badly enough that he bumped into his brother. Whatever _that_ was, it was far closer than the wolf. Thorin, frowning, took note of the way Kíli’s eyes darted around the forest, far too intent on the barking than was called for. If it had been a dog, then it was of less concern than the wolf.

‘Kíli?’ prompted Fíli quietly, and Kíli blinked confusedly.

‘Fíli,’ he said, ‘I don’t think-‘

Another howl interrupted whatever he had been about to say. Much closer, this time – too close for comfort. Thorin tensed, his hand finding the hilt of Orcrist. They needed clearer ground, high ground preferably – their line of sight was far too limited by the trees and the mist.

Fíli looked to Thorin. ‘Are we being hunted?’

‘We need to move,’ said Thorin, ‘ _now_.’

Fíli seemed to have the same thought in mind. He grabbed a hold of Kíli’s arm, urging his brother forward, putting him in between Fíli and Thorin. As he hurried to follow, he scanned the landscape, but the mist had by now thickened to fog, and what little sunlight they had had was dimming rapidly. If they were about to be attacked, it couldn’t have come at a worse moment.

More barking, and Kíli’s stride stuttered. Fíli pushed a hand to his brother’s back – there was no time to worry about whatever had come over him. Thorin strode on ahead of them, almost jogging, leading them to where the trees seemed to thin.

A low wolf-song, so close it felt as though it had come from just a few metres away, caused them to pick up their speed, and Fíli was grateful when they emerged into a small clearing. If they were being hunted, then at the very least they would now be able to see the beasts coming.

‘Kíli, your bow,’ said Thorin, Orcrist already unsheathed and in his hand.

Fíli took out both his swords, standing closer to Kíli than he usually would, trying to bite back the admonishment on the tip of his tongue as Kíli _fumbled_ with his bow and arrow. Fíli hadn’t seen him do that since he was a dwarfling.

But then there came a yowling, and Fíli lowered his guard in shock. The sound had caused a stirring in his heart, a warmth that was akin to the feeling of returning home to kin and hearth after a long day of labour.

‘Fíli! Kíli!’ Thorin all but shouted at them, no longer bothering to keep his voice low. Reflexively, Kíli brought bow and arrow up in the direction of the last howl, but Thorin could see his hand shaking from where he stood.

Something disturbed the undergrowth to their left, close to where Kíli had taken up position, whatever it was noisily making its way towards them with no concern for stealth.

Kíli lowered his bow.

Torn between fear and anger for his nephew, Thorin’s first instinct was to step forwards and pull Kíli back, perhaps shake him from whatever enchantment had ensnared him. But Kíli, oblivious to the worry he was causing and against all logic, dropped bow and arrow to his side and fell to a crouch, one arm outstretched as if to coax a shy dog from its hiding place.

‘Kíli-‘

‘Uncle, it’s alright,’ said Kíli, briefly throwing Thorin a bright smile over his shoulder, ‘it’s _alright_ -‘

A huge, four-legged creature burst from the undergrowth and all but tackled Kíli to the ground. Thorin raised his sword to strike out at Kíli’s attacker, but hesitation stayed his blade. Was Kíli – was Kíli _laughing_?

He was. His weapons had been thrown aside, his hands instead preoccupied with the task of fending off what could only be described as a small, brown-grey wolf licking his face.

‘Kíli,’ Thorin said again, more cautiously this time. The creature’s bushy tail was wagging so hard Thorin might have taken it for a dog, but there was no mistaking its powerful build and the sleek, predatory line of its muzzle and head.

Thorin tore his eyes away from the sight, hoping to find a common cause in Fíli. His hopes were soon dashed, however, when his gaze alighted on his heir. Fíli was stood with his back to Thorin, his swords lowered and all but slipping from his hands, attention glued to the beast that stood watching him.

 _This_ four legged creature was smaller than the wolf currently playfully nipping at Kíli’s fingers. Its features were sharper, body leaner, tail shorter, and its pelt was a wondrous, rich gold, paling to a creamy-yellow on its belly and chest. It was watching Fíli curiously, and there was no sign of aggression in its stance. Slowly, as though not to spook it, Fíli sheathed his swords and did as Kíli had done, dropping to his knees and stretching out one hand in offering.

The golden wolf padded forwards, and Thorin sucked in a breath. It stopped short of Fíli’s hand, sniffing it, before lowering its head. Fíli, his young face full of wonder, placed a careful hand on its neck, sinking his fingers into the thick golden fur.

‘We were looking for you!’ said a voice.

Kíli gasped, his movements stilling instantly. ‘You can _speak_ ,’ he accused of the wolf, for the words had undeniably issued from the beast’s mouth.

‘Of course we can,’ huffed the wolf.

‘This is an enchantment of some kind,’ said Thorin faintly, struggling to comprehend this new turn of events. 

Beorn’s animals had been frighteningly intelligent, and the Eagles of Manwë had spoken to them the night of their rescue, but both instances had had precedent; Gandalf had known about Beorn’s animals and not thought them strange at all, and there was not a denizen of Middle Earth that did not know of the intelligence of the Eagles of Manwë. This, however, was another matter entirely, and for the third time that day Thorin found himself completely at a loss.

‘No, it’s not,’ disagreed Fíli’s wolf. ‘I’m as real as you are.’

‘Where did you come from?’ said Fíli. ‘It feels like - like I _know_ you.’

‘That’s how I feel, too,’ admitted Kíli quietly.

‘I don’t know,’ said the golden wolf, ‘I only remember waking up in this forest and smelling you, and knowing I had to be with you. I know your name is Fíli, and I think…I think _I_ have a name, too…’

It trailed off, head tilted, and Fíli softly said, ‘Lukhudith.’

The wolf’s large ears flicked up. ‘yes, that’s it!’ it exclaimed. ‘That’s it exactly!’ and it proceeded to bounce around Fíli, nudging him in the side with its nose. ‘You’re Fíli and I’m Lukhudith.’

Its excitement was absorbed by the brown-grey wolf, who lowered itself on its forepaws and hopped from side to side. ‘And I’m, I’m-‘

‘Nârù,’ said Kíli with absolute certainty.

‘Nârù!’ the wolf yipped, pushing its head into Kíli’s hands. ‘And you’re Kíli.’

‘But I don’t understand,’ said Kíli, even as he put a hand out to steady Nârù, ‘what _are_ you?’

‘That is exactly what I would like to know,’ said Thorin, and his nephews and both wolves turned to him in surprise, as though they had forgotten he was there. ‘They seem to mean you no harm, but that ghost warned us we may meet many strange things along the way.’ He shook his head a little, watching the two little wolves carefully. ‘I still think this to be some trick.’

A low growl, far lower than either of the two wolves could ever have achieved, sounded from directly behind him, and all of his musings were forgotten in lieu of turning to face this newcomer. A chill ran down his spine as a huge, powerful creature emerged from the mist, the fog rolling off its haunches to reveal the form of a mighty wolf.

Whatever Nârù and Lukhudith were, they were certainly not wolves, nor could Thorin believe he had ever mistaken them as such, not when confronted by the real thing. The wolf stalked forwards, stopping short of the edge of the clearing, and Thorin raised Orcrist once more, ready to defend them from the threat.

The wolf stood unmoving, staring at Thorin impassively with clear golden eyes. Thorin tensed, expecting an attack at any moment – he would not put it past the wolf to leap upon them without warning, even if it was severely outnumbered. But a long moment passed in which the wolf neither retreated nor moved towards them, and it seemed utterly unconcerned about the weapon in Thorin’s hand.

‘Thorin,’ said Fíli carefully, ‘Thorin, I have no idea what they are, but what if, what if that one is _yours_?’

‘He’s right,’ said Lukhudith. ‘I can smell it.’

‘Me too,’ said Nârù, ‘can’t you sense it?’

‘Sense _what_?’

‘Uncle, when she – when Nârù barked, back there in the forest, I knew it was her. I knew she wasn’t going to hurt us, though I can’t explain _how_ I knew that. Can’t you feel that, too?’

Thorin couldn’t. Whatever Kíli had felt was a mystery to Thorin. All he knew now was suspicion, and distrust, and a lingering fear that Nârù or Lukhudith would turn on them at any moment, in spite of their strange connection to Kíli and Fíli. He dared not turn his back on the wolf, nor could he allow himself to put aside Orcrist when it insisted on being in such close proximity to them.

'Do you...do you remember anything that happened before you fell asleep?' Thorin heard Fíli ask of Lukhudith.

'No,' replied the wolf, 'nothing at all.'

'But I know why we're here,' piped up Nârù, 'I know why we're on this quest.'

'I know everything about _you_ ,' said Lukhudith, pushing her nose into the palm of Fíli's hand. 'I know your mother's name and I know how we came to be in Erebor, and I know why we have to find Bilbo. Isn't that odd?'

'Very odd,' murmured Kíli.

Kíli and Fíli exchanged a look, bewildered and attempting to find a point of reference that they could understand. If they were confused, then at least they were not alone in their confusion.

‘We should move on,’ said Thorin, but his voice held little conviction. He had yet to look away from the wolf.

‘But the wolf would just follow us,’ said Kíli, ‘it was following us for all that time, just as Nârù was.’ He gave a small, strained chuckle. ‘I don’t think you’re getting rid of it.’

Thorin lowered Orcrist, barely hearing Kíli’s words, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting ideas. The wolf’s tale twitched from side to side slowly, and it seemed to be waiting for something.

'Please don't send us away,' said Nârù quietly, 'I don't think...I don't think we're supposed to be parted. I _know_ we're not supposed to be anywhere but by your side.'

Kíli, frowning, put his hands to her ruff, brushing the fur the wrong way. 'We're not sending you anywhere,' he assured her, 'not when we still have so many questions.'

‘We’re tired,’ said Fíli, ‘it’s been a long day, and I think the sun is finally setting. Why don’t we rest awhile?’

‘Yes, I think that’s a good idea,’ said Kíli with forced cheer, then frowned, ‘I’m certain I’m supposed to feel hungry, too, but I don’t.’

‘Probably because you stuffed your face with Bombur’s pies at lunch,’ said Fíli, ‘how many did you eat again?’

‘Three, but you can talk, you weren’t far behind-‘

‘We rest here,’ said Thorin, finally looking away from the wolf, ‘I will take first watch.’

‘Alright, Thorin,’ agreed Fíli, his argument with Kíli forgotten in a moment, ‘I’ll take second.’

Thorin expected Kíli to protest at having to take the dawn watch, but his nephew said nothing, giving a small nod and taking off his long coat to lay it down on the forest floor in a makeshift bed, briefly scratching Nârù’s ears as he did so. Nârù and Lukhudith, meanwhile, took it upon themselves to greet the wolf, trotting up to her – and it _was_ a female wolf, though Thorin had no clue as to how he knew this – and softly touching noses with her. The wolf met them both gently, enduring their licks to her muzzle, before they both returned to Kíli and Fíli’s sides.

Thorin settled down with his back against a tree, laying Orcrist across his lap. The wolf moved further into the clearing, laying down across from Thorin on the ground, body angled towards something that held its interest.

Fíli and Kíli, after a few minutes of quiet chatter with their wolves, were quick to doze off, as they always were. They were lucky it was warm here, and that winter had left this place untouched; they would need little more than the clothes they wore to keep them warm. Their wolves, meanwhile, after a brief bout of playful biting, settled next to them, but not to sleep – Thorin could still clearly see that their eyes were open and watchful even as Kíli started to snore.

Thorin stared at the wolf across the expanse of the clearing. She stared back, golden gaze giving nothing away.

‘Why do you refuse to speak?’ said Thorin, his voice purposely pitched low so as not to wake Kíli or Fíli.

The wolf said nothing.

‘Are you unable to?’ he hazarded. She turned her head away, the movement distinctly disdainful. Not unable to speak, then, but unwilling.

‘Why, then?’

She turned her head back to him, as still as stone.

‘I cannot believe that we are connected,’ Thorin admitted. ‘They might, but I cannot. I value what I know and what I can see in front of me.’

He pulled out the small bead from his inside pocket, cupping it in his hand. It was now so dark that he could only just make out the markings.

‘But I am at war with myself,’ he continued, ‘for my gut tells me that you are real, and that this isn’t some trick of the world we find ourselves in. I only wish I could trust it, as I would have done once upon a time.’

Still the wolf refused to speak.

‘Very well, keep your silence,’ snapped Thorin, irritated. Her only response to this was to resume her watch, eyes firmly fixed at some point deep in the forest. With a jolt, Thorin realised she was pointing in the exact same direction he had been leading them.

Apparitions, strange woods and talking animals. It had been one of the oddest days Thorin had ever known. He was glad for the presence of his nephews, despite still harbouring anger at them for their actions. If they hadn’t of been here, then…well, Thorin might have thought that he had gone mad.

For the second time in his life.

He rolled the bead around in his palm, watching what little light there was glint over the surface of the cheap metal. It was of poor craftsmanship, made of sub-par materials, and had been shoddily put together. But still he treasured it, though he would never admit that to anyone, not even Fíli or Kíli. Not even, really, to himself.

When it came to wake Fíli, he instructed his nephew to keep a careful watch over the wolf.

‘Keep your weapons to hand,’ he told him, ‘I will not have us take any risks tonight.’

Fíli looked as though he might say something, but he took up Thorin’s place all the same, Lukhudith sitting next to him. Thorin allowed himself one last glance at the wolf before he took off his furred coat and set himself down on it.

He held the bead lightly in his hand as he tried to drift off. Fíli would not let any harm come to them, he knew, but the wolf’s presence worried him all the same. Just as it had done for the last two months, sleep eluded him for many hours, and when it finally did come, it was shallow and not restful in the slightest.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thorin's assumption that both of the boy's daemons are wolves is not quite right. For clarification, their daemons are as follows:
> 
> Thorin: Grey Wolf
> 
> Fili: Golden Jackal
> 
> Kili: Coyote
> 
> The next chapter is almost finished, and should be out within the next few days. I'm afraid I can't guarantee I'll be able to keep posting chapters every few days! But I am aiming to have a chapter out every week.
> 
> Thank you very much everyone for giving this new fic such a warm welcome! Hope you enjoyed this chapter.


	3. Chapter 2

Dawn the next day came upon their clearing sluggishly, the sunlight weaker than it had been the day before. The animals proved not to be a strange dream, and were still present when they woke, Lukhudith circling them, eager to be off, Nârù watching Kíli check over his bow and arrows and ready himself for another day of walking. The wolf, meanwhile, was pacing back and forth at one end of the clearing, stopping every few seconds to sniff the air.

‘I’m not hungry,’ said Kíli, ‘are you?’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Be thankful,’ said Thorin, shrugging on his coat, ‘there is nothing to eat here, save for bark and leaves.’

Fíli pulled a face. ‘No thank you. That might be suitable fare for Elves, but not for me.’

They set off, Thorin and the wolf leading the way, and it was exactly the same as yesterday, save for the part where Kíli and Fíli could now occupy their time by quizzing their wolves on all manner of subjects. How much can you smell, what can you hear, what can you see? What sort of wolf are you? They asked. Thorin listened to their conversations with half an ear, most of his attention on the wolf ranging ahead of them. Whenever she strayed too far, she would look back and wait for them to catch up, and then repeat the process.

The landscape changed again, and they had to traverse little gullies and narrow paths through rock formations. After only an hour’s worth of walking, the animals flicked up their ears, all of them pointing in one direction.

‘I can hear water,’ said Lukhudith at Fíli’s questioning look.

‘Well that makes a change,’ said Kíli, ‘I was getting bored of trees, trees and more trees.’

It was, indeed, water. Soon the dwarves could hear it, too, and they didn’t have to wait long to find its source: two huge waterfalls, hidden away among the rocks, a shallow pool at their base.

‘Thorin,’ said Fíli with the air of someone trying to keep a hold of his sanity, ‘is it just me, or is that one…not moving?’

‘No, it’s…it’s not,’ agreed Thorin slowly, for while one of the waterfalls fell from the rocks above in a steady, endless stream, its twin was motionless.

‘Perhaps it’s frozen?’ suggested Kíli. He startled in the next second when the wolf gave a low snort and began to make her way across the pool, the water deep enough to reach her haunches but not enough to cause a real hindrance. After a moment’s hesitation, Thorin followed, wading through the water to get a closer look at the waterfall. It was about twice as wide as Thorin, a rippling veil caught in a moment in time, completely unmoving.

It wasn’t frozen. When Thorin reached out to cautiously touch the surface, his hand sunk in, just as it would when touching any normal form of water. But when he drew back, his skin was dry. He peered through the waterfall, trying to see behind it, into the dark that it hid. He looked down briefly at the wolf.

‘There’s a way through,’ he said to Fíli and Kíli, who had come to join him. ‘There’s a gap in the wall here. This is our path.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Fíli.

‘There’s only one way to find out,’ said Thorin, and he stepped into the suspended water.

It was that same feeling again of immersion again, only this time, when he was fully through, the world lurched sideways without warning and Thorin opened his mouth and found that real water flooded it. His body, at the shock of it, tried to take a breath and choked on water. He was fully submerged, blind and with no idea which way was up. He had the brief sensation of stars flaring across the inky blackness, coalescing high above his head into a dappled light source, like light on the surface of water. His lungs straining for breath, he swam for it in great powerful strokes, fighting against his heavy gear and sodden clothing.

Thorin broke the surface with a great gulp of air. He pushed his hair out of his face with a hand, skimming the water and searching for the bank, trying to reassert which way was up. Land was not too far away, and the wolf was already there, shaking out her coat and looking back at him expectantly.

The water was shallower nearer to the bank, and soon Thorin could walk the rest of the way out, but he paused, still knee deep in water, looking out at the wide river. His worries were eased when Kili and Fili broke the surface with spluttered gasps, and with a hand on each of their arms to steady them, Thorin helped them up the stony shallows to dry land.

Nârù took particular care to shake all over Lukhudith. Lukhidith’s response was to shove her back into the water.

‘Well that was the oddest experience so far,’ said Kíli.

‘Where are we?’ said Fíli, wringing out his coat.

Their surroundings were once again thickly forested, but gone was the pale sunlight and the bleached colours of the trees. Instead they stood in a forest clearly in the depths of winter, for there were no leaves on the branches, and the sky above was a clear, piercing blue. Thorin could even hear birdsong.

‘Oh, good,’ said Kíli, ‘ _more_ forest.’

Travelling in wet clothes was not wise, and so they unanimously decided to start a fire. Fíli, who had learnt much from Óin and Glóin during the journey, soon had a merry little blaze going, and they quickly stripped their outer layers to draw as much water from them as they could, setting them close to the fire to dry off. They sat around in their tunics and breeches, trying to draw warmth from the blaze, fending off shivers and relating the odd experience of their arrival to each other. Nârù and Lukhidth came in particularly handy – neither were affected by the cold, and their fur dried rapidly, allowing them to curl up beside their respective Dwarves and offer them their warmth. The wolf, much to Thorin’s surprise, did the same, coming to lay beside Thorin, though she was careful not to let her flank touch him.

They became keenly aware of their hunger, and their bellies soon reminded them that they hadn’t eaten for a full day. Kíli, taking up his dagger, scouted the area around them, and was rewarded with a handful of late autumn apples, which he shared out between the three of them. It was not much, and the apples were hard, but it was better than nothing.

Their clothes relatively dry, they set off again, Kíli and Fili eager to find game or something more substantial to eat, Thorin curious as to the change in their landscape. Wherever they were, it had none of the emptiness of the forest they had been traversing only that morning. Thorin would even hazard a guess as to say that they were in any other normal forest, no different from the ones that had, once upon a time, clustered around the Lonely Mountain’s foothills. There was even a well-worn path that followed the river, but Thorin lead them off of it as soon as they set off. Kíli and Fíli had followed unquestioningly.

Thorin judged that they had been walking for about half an hour when the wolf pulled up her stride, shifting from easy movement to intent watchfulness in the space of a breath.

‘What is it?’ Thorin asked, fingers twitching.

‘Can you hear anything?’ he heard Fíli ask Lukhudith behind him.

A long, tense moment passed, then the wolf swung around to the left and let out a low bark. They whipped around, following her line of sight, and were just in time to see a small figure emerge from the undergrowth, a bow in his hand, arrow notched and ready to fly.

How on earth the archer had snuck up on them, Thorin would never know. He had appeared seemingly out of thin air, his heavy furs and light mottled tunic having certainly helped him blend into the landscape, his face hidden beneath the cowl of his hood. Thorin let his hands fall open in front of him, trying not to provoke him. If the archer’s aim was true, then one of them could be dead in a moment. 

‘Go back to the path,’ called the archer, and at the sound of his voice Thorin felt as though he had been struck by lightning. That _voice_. It couldn’t be. It _couldn’t_ be.

‘Go back to the path or I _will_ kill you! You are straying into-‘

‘Bilbo?’ Thorin said with absolute certainty.

The archer’s voice faltered. ‘What?’ he said, ‘how do you…’ Thorin saw him give a little shake of his head. ‘It doesn’t matter! You need to turn back.’

‘Bilbo!’ said Kíli, smiling happily, ‘Bilbo, it’s us, it’s-‘

He took a step forward. An arrow thudded into the ground inches from his foot.

‘Stay back!’ said the archer, taking another arrow from his quiver.

Kíli looked incredulously at his brother. ‘he just - he just _shot_ at me!’ he turned back to the archer, outraged, ‘you could have hit me!’

‘I missed on purpose, you idiot,’ shot back the archer, and Thorin could just imagine him rolling his eyes. A strange bubbling sensation was working its way up through Thorin’s chest. That tone was so very distinctly belonging to Bilbo Baggins that Thorin dared to step forwards himself. Instantly the archer’s arrow swung around to point at Thorin, and he paused, hands held up and outwards.

‘Bilbo,’ he tried again, caution waging a war with hope in his heart, ‘don’t you recognise us?’

‘Should I?’ the archer snapped, ‘I don’t care. You need to get back on the path. Keep on ambling down by the river if you must.’

‘Why?’

‘This is our territory,’ said the archer.

‘Who’s territory? I didn’t see any markers,’ said Kíli, and he still sounded indignant that Bilbo had shot at him.

Nârù, her ears twitching back and forth, started to tug at the edge of Kíli’s tunic. ‘Kíli, she said between tugs, ‘ _Kíli_.’

‘Not now, Nârù,’ said Kíli irritably, trying to brush her off.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ the archer was saying. ‘Turn back.’

But Thorin couldn’t, not when Bilbo stood before him.

‘Your name is Bilbo Baggins,’ he said with the utmost care. ‘Your mother’s name was Belladonna, and she was a Took. Your father was Bungo. They started courting when your mother threw a custard tart at your father in a fit of irritation.’

With every word, the archer’s arrow had steadily dropped, inch by inch.

‘That’s…that’s impossible. How do you know all that?’ said the archer. ‘The last part with the custard tart isn’t right, but that sounds an awful lot like them.’

‘I propose a deal, Mister Baggins,’ said Thorin, ‘we’re cold and we’re hungry and we are utterly lost.’

Kíli and Fíli attempted to look as bedraggled as possible behind him.

‘We didn’t mean to trespass, I swear it, and you have nothing to fear from us. Give us a good meal and I’ll tell you how I know all that I know about you.’

The archer appeared to think about it. Thorin couldn’t see his face, but he could guess at the stubborn line of Bilbo’s mouth as he tried to come to a decision.

‘Alright,’ agreed the archer after a long moment, and Thorin all but slumped in relief. ‘But you keep your daemons close, you hear? And I’ll need your weapons.’

‘What?’ said Fíli, ‘that’s not necessary - we don’t mean you any harm.’

‘I don’t know that,’ said the archer. ‘Weapons, or this isn’t happening. Throw them on the ground in front of you.’

‘You seem very confident for one lone archer,’ said Thorin observed mildly, curious at what Bilbo’s reaction would be. ‘Even if you were to take down one of us, you would still be outnumbered. We would kill you in seconds.’

But instead of faltering, as Thorin had expected, the archer said, with a distinct smile in his voice. ‘Oh, I think I could take you.’

Kíli snorted. ‘You and who’s army?’ he said.

The archer let out a low whistle. The undergrowth rustled and shook around them, and a dozen more archers appeared, their arrows trained on the three Dwarves.

‘I was trying to _tell_ you,’ whined Nârù.

 

 

 

Their weapons were taken from them by what they now knew to be Hobbits, and they were lead away by Bilbo. The Hobbits kept them in a line, and flanked them as they walked, keeping a careful watch over their movements. Thorin observed that they kept their distance from Nârù and Lukhudith, and that the wolf was given the widest berth of all. Each of the Hobbits were dressed as Bilbo was, in loose-fitted thick leathers trimmed in fur to ward off the winter chill. They were all similarly armed with a knife - some with short swords - and all of them had some form of long range weapon, either a bow or a slingshot.

Fíli tapped Thorin’s shoulder, pointing to a hobbit further up the path. The hobbit, Thorin saw, had a small, weasel-like creature wrapped around his shoulders. Fíli pointed again, this time to a hobbit to their right, whose stride was matched by a small brown dog loping along at its side.

Now that Fíli had pointed it out, Thorin could see several animals, all attached to various Hobbits or walking alongside them. A small mouse poked its head out of the pocket of the hobbit nearest to Thorin. A brown hare lopped alongside another. Another still had a dove sitting calmly on her hood.

He and Fili looked at each other, speculating silently. Were they like Nârù, Lukhudith and the wolf? Thorin wondered. Could they talk, too?

Thorin’s eyes drifted back to the front of the line, to where Bilbo was leading them deeper into the forest. The hobbit had yet to remove his hood, but Thorin knew it was him all the same. If each hobbit had a companion of their own, then where was Bilbo’s?

They crested a hill, and Bilbo whistled out a series of short, sharp sounds. Thorin glanced upwards to see two more hobbits signal from their perches in the lofty branches. Bilbo signalled back, and their party passed through, leaving the two guard hobbits in their positions.

A few more steps and Thorin could see what they were guarding. A whole camp lay at the foot of the hill, comprised of makeshift tents and two sizeable cooking fires. At one side of the camp lay a scattering of caves, set into the stony hill. Dozens of hobbits were hard at work, seeing to food or tending to the tethered pack ponies. A few were practising their archery skills, a few more setting up another tent.

A young female hobbit saw their approach, jogging to meet Bilbo at the head of the train.

‘What’s this?’ she said, her eyes raking over Thorin, Kili and Fili with great interest, ‘this doesn’t look like venison.’

‘Travellers who wandered off the path, Prim,’ Thorin heard Bilbo say.

‘Well, what are they doing here?’ asked ‘Prim’.

‘Prim, may I introduce…come to think of it, I don’t know any of your names,’ said Bilbo abashedly.

‘Thorin, son of Thráin,’ said Thorin, purposefully leaving off his title. Bilbo had never been particularly impressed by it, in any case, and he was certain this Bilbo would be no different.

‘Fili, son of Dís,’ said Fili, taking his cue from Thorin.

‘Kili, son of Dís.’

‘Primula Brandybuck,’ said the hobbit, sketching out a small curtsey – an odd sight indeed in her furs and heavy winter gear.

‘Just getting a hot meal before we send them on their way,’ said Bilbo. ‘They’re a strange lot, but they’re harmless.’

‘Their daemons say otherwise,’ said Primula.

Bilbo leant in, whispering to her conspiratorially, but still loud enough for Thorin to hear. ‘Between you and me I don’t think they’re quite right in the head.’

Primula snorted loudly. Fili made a faint noise of protest behind Thorin’s back.

‘Well why didn’t you say! Let’s get you settled in,’ she said to Thorin with a grin, ‘you’ll find we’re kind folk who won’t turn away fools in need of help.’

She and Bilbo exchanged a quick, amused look, as though sharing a private joke.

‘Excuse me-‘ growled Thorin, taking great offense to that, but Bilbo turned to him, throwing off his hood at last, and all of Thorin’s protests died in his throat.

‘If you give us your coats we’ll dry them out for you,’ said Bilbo, oblivious to Thorin’s inner turmoil, ‘you look like you’ve been swimming in the river.’ When Thorin said nothing, he raised his eyebrows. ‘ _Have_ you been swimming in the river?’

Thorin heard not a word from his mouth. How strange it was, for that face to be looking at him with nothing more than faint puzzlement. How strange for Bilbo’s features not to be contorted with fear, and deep hurt, and a grief that made Thorin’s heart ache every time he thought of it. It set Thorin’s stomach roiling with a guilt so piercing, so hot, it left him breathless.

‘Is he…is he alright?’ asked Bilbo of Fili and Kili.

‘He’ll be fine,’ Fili said, shooting Thorin a look of kind understanding.

'It's been a strange couple of days,' added Kili. His eyes darted over Bilbo's face, his expression torn. 

‘Goodness, I see what you meant, now,’ said Primula, peering at Thorin.

‘Why is he- oh, decided to join us, have you?’ said Bilbo as a bird landed on his shoulder.

‘Well it _is_ almost lunch time,’ said the bird primly.

‘Thank you so much for your help, earlier,’ said Bilbo. The bird pecked at the curls by Bilbo’s ear.

‘You know I was watching,’ it said, and it sounded like a very old argument. ‘I just needed to stretch my wings.’

‘The bird,’ said Thorin, finally shaking off the shock and guilt and finding his voice, ‘it can speak?’

Bilbo gave him a funny look. ‘Of course she can,’ he said. ‘All daemons can speak.’

‘Daemons?’ asked Fili, ‘what’s a daemon?’

‘Oh _dear_ ,’ Primula said.

 

 

 

They were ushered away by Bilbo, to sit by one of the campfires, surrounded by curious Hobbits on all sides. Bilbo had shaken his head at Kili’s questioning, and insisted that, ‘he couldn’t have this conversation without some food in him first,’ and had disappeared along with Primula to fetch them lunch.

‘Is it him?’ Fili asked as soon as Bilbo was out of earshot. He was whispering, but he needn’t have bothered – they were being given a great deal of space by the other Hobbits, who were watching them with equal parts curiosity and wariness.

‘No,’ said Thorin at the same time as Kili said, ‘yes’.

‘But it has to be him! He looks exactly like Bilbo.’

‘But he doesn’t recognise us,’ said Fili.

‘Maybe he’s forgotten us? Maybe it’s this world – maybe it caused him to forget us and think that he was…was…’

‘The leader of a small band of Hobbits that look like they might be bandits?’ Thorin completed dryly.

Kili sighed. ‘When we saw him, I thought this journey was over. I thought that perhaps it might be _easy_ , for once.’

Nârù came and put her head on his lap.

‘If it were that easy, everyone would do it,’ said Lukhudith, and the wolf murmured her agreement.

‘There is a way of finding out for certain if it is him or not,’ Thorin said. ‘But I might need a minute with him alone, when he comes back.’

They did not have to wait long. Bilbo returned, a bowl in either hand, and he was accompanied by three other Hobbits, who each served out food to them. One of them, a young female hobbit with a small owl on her shoulder, passed Fili a bowl of stew and a huge chunk of buttered bread, giving him a brilliant smile as she did so.

‘My name’s Jessamine Took, but you can call me Jessie,’ she told Fili, ‘and this is Amaryllis.’

‘Ah,’ said Fili, blinking, ‘this is Lukhudith, and I’m Fili, son of Dís.’ He lowered his head a little – it was hard to bow when you were already sat down. ‘At your service.’

‘Hullo,’ said Lukhudith, politely dipping her head.

‘I’ll be over here, if you want to chat,’ she said with another smile, and wandered away. Fili watched her go, one eyebrow raised.

Kili nudged him in his side, grinning. ‘How very smooth of you, Fili. We haven’t even been here two minutes!’

‘Shut up,’ grunted Fili, ‘I’m sure she was just being polite.’

‘It would seem not all Hobbits are shy,’ said Thorin.

‘That’s the Tooks for you,’ said Bilbo, settling down next to Thorin and handing him a bowl, ‘if she asks you to show her how to throw one of your daggers properly, don’t be fooled. She’s the best knife-thrower in the camp.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Fili, digging into his stew and studiously ignoring his brother’s grin.

‘So,’ said Bilbo, ‘how is it that three grown Dwarves don’t even know what a daemon is?’

‘I assume you are referring to the animals,’ said Thorin, fighting to keep his tone even and free of what he was feeling. 

The image of Bilbo, pale and unmoving on a sick bed, flashed through his mind, and it was all Thorin could do not to stand up and walk away.

‘They’re not exactly animals,’ Bilbo said, his own daemon fluttering down off of his shoulder and onto his knee. Bilbo ran a finger over the bird’s head. Thorin could easily identify the breed; its distinctive autumn-red plumage marked it out as a red kestrel.

‘Humour us,’ said Fili, ‘assume we are utter dolts who don’t know anything.’

‘I’m beginning to see the truth to that,’ said Bilbo. ‘But I still don’t understand how you don’t know any of this. Dwarves have daemons, too, though you may call them something else, I suppose. They’re with you all your life. You can never be parted.’

‘From birth?’ said Thorin.

‘From birth to death,’ confirmed Bilbo. ‘They’re…well, for lack of a better definition, they are the representation of your soul.’

‘Our _souls_ ,’ echoed Kili incredulously. ‘How is that possible?’

Bilbo shrugged. ‘It just is. It’s always been like that. Did you all receive a blow to the head or something?’

‘Well, _Kili_ might have when he was little,’ muttered Fili, and Kili whacked him on the arm. ‘Might explain a lot-’

‘And they’re all different,’ Thorin said, ignoring Fili, his eye wandering over the camp.

‘Each and every one. As different as we all are. You can tell what a person’s like by looking at their daemon, or at least certain characteristics.’

‘Like what?’ said Fili.

‘Well, say a hobbit had a dog daemon. You could assume that they were loyal, or good at obeying orders. It doesn’t always work, but most of the time it’s right.’

Thorin turned to look at the wolf that lay at his feet, as close to the fire as she could get without scorching herself. Her ears twitched at every movement, and she occasionally lifted her head to look around the camp.

What does it say about me, Thorin wanted to ask, that I have a wolf as a daemon?

‘Now I’ve answered your questions,’ said Bilbo, ‘it’s time you answered some of _mine_.’

Kili and Fili immediately leapt to their feet. Thorin didn’t even have to give them a signal.

‘We’ll be topping up our bowls,’ said Fili, ‘I’m still _starving_.’

‘Me too,’ said Kili, slinging an arm around Fili’s shoulder, ‘come on, brother, let’s see if we can find that lovely hobbit lass again – what was it, Jessie? Maybe she wants some _archery_ lessons instead.’

They wandered off in the direction of the cooking stoves, bickering amongst themselves.

‘Subtle,’ said Bilbo dryly.

Although it had been Thorin’s idea for Fili and Kili to give him a moment alone with Bilbo, he was now regretting it. It wasn’t that he couldn’t look Bilbo in the eye – he had the opposite problem instead. Whether it was their Bilbo or not, this Bilbo was achingly familiar, and Thorin found himself searching for any hint of betrayal, or hurt in the hobbit’s otherwise mild expression. When he could find nothing but bright curiosity, he could not bring himself to look away.

‘So, how do you know my name?’ said Bilbo. ‘We’ve wandered far and wide, but I’m certain we’ve never met.’

‘It’s a long story,’ Thorin said, but he could see Bilbo’s curiosity had been aroused, and knew there was no stopping him now.

‘We have time.’

Thorin hesitated, and tried his best to answer in a way that would not sound utterly false to Bilbo’s ears.

‘We knew each other, in...in another life,’ Thorin said. ‘You may not believe me, but it’s the truth. We shared a journey together, but you were…lost.’

‘And you’re searching for me?’ hedged Bilbo.

‘Yes. We were sent here by…well, it doesn’t matter. But I don’t think this is our world. Where we’re from, we do not have daemons.’

‘No daemons!’ exclaimed Bilbo. ‘Well, there’s an odd thought.’

‘You believe me?’

‘Not in the slightest,’ said Bilbo with a smile, ‘I still think you’ve been knocked on your head somewhere along the way. But _you_ certainly believe it.’

‘I believe you!’ piped up Bilbo’s kestrel.

‘You’ll believe _anything_ ,’ said Bilbo, ‘especially if it makes for a good story.’

‘That’s true,’ agreed the bird.

Thorin watched as Bilbo’s eyes wandered over to the fire, to where Thorin’s daemon lay.

‘Not having a daemon,’ he said quietly. ‘How lonely that must be.’ He blinked, and turned to Thorin, his blue eyes soft and far too perceptive.

‘Your daemon. Does she…does she refuse to speak to you?’

Thorin saw no reason to hide it. ‘Yes. We have met only recently, but she has yet to say a word to me.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Bilbo with a grimace. ‘That’s awful. I’m…I’m really sorry.’

‘What are you sorry for? You hardly know me,’ said Thorin, his brow creasing.

‘But still,’ Bilbo insisted, ‘it’s hardly a pleasant thing.’

‘It causes me no bother.’

Bilbo’s eyebrows shot up. He and his daemon looked at each other.

‘But when a daemon refuses to speak,’ he said slowly, as though choosing his words with the utmost care, ‘it can be a sign of…of having experienced or seen _terrible_ things. Or of…’ Bilbo trailed off, uttering his last word so quietly that Thorin strained to catch it.

‘Madness.’

Thorin turned away as though he had been struck, heart pounding in his chest. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, and his left hand forming a tight fist by his thigh.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Bilbo after a long, tense minute of silence.

‘Don’t be,’ Thorin grunted, still unable to look at Bilbo again. ‘You...you speak as though from experience.’

‘I’ve seen it before. Other Hobbits, even fauntlings, their daemons silent and far too quiet.’

That caused Thorin to pause. The Shire, as he had remembered it, had been a lush, peaceful place. What cause had a hobbit ever had to feel traumatised?

‘Why are you out here?’ said Thorin suddenly, addressing the point that had niggled at him since they first come across Bilbo. ‘It’s not like Hobbits to wander so far from The Shire, is it?’

He was taken aback when Bilbo blanched at the mention of his homeland, his bird burrowing its head into the collar of his thick jacket.

‘The Shire?’ he said, ‘is that where your Bilbo is from?’

‘Yes, why-‘

‘The Shire was lost two generations ago,’ said Bilbo, his face pale.

‘What - _how_?’ demanded Thorin. He had always thought The Shire to be protected - an untouched land that would remain so for another Age at least.

‘Orcs,’ said Bilbo, ‘we were routed out and left with no choice but to flee. We’ve been wandering ever since.’

‘But what of the Rangers,’ said Thorin, remembering a conversation he and Bilbo had once had about the Fell Winter. ‘Surely they came to your aid?’

‘They were outnumbered,’ said Bilbo, ‘they were slaughtered.’

‘But _Gandalf_ -‘

‘Who’s Gandalf?’

Ah. That drew Thorin up short, his line of thought stalling. ‘The wizard. Surely you must know who Gandalf is.’

‘I know of no wizard save for Saruman,’ said Bilbo, spitting out the name with a vehemence Thorin didn’t know Bilbo possessed.

Thorin stared at him for a moment, mind reeling. As much as he disliked them, there was still one source of help that surely, _surely_ would have come to the aid of the Shire had it been under attack.

‘And…Rivendell?’ he said, and Bilbo’s confusion became threaded with anger.

‘Never heard of it. I don’t know what it’s like where _you’re_ from, but here the West burns, and no one can do a thing about it.’

Thorin lapsed into silence, his eyes darting around the camp, making quick calculations.

‘You’re protecting a larger camp,’ he guessed, and knew he had the answer when Bilbo flinched and his bird let out a squawk.

‘How do you know _that_?’

‘There are no children here, only adults,’ said Thorin, speaking quickly. ‘Adults who are all clearly proficient in at least one weapon. This camp is too small by far to be the entirety of your people, and I do not think you would have let us in had this been your main camp, where there would likely be families, and the infirm, and the elderly.’

‘You’re far more perceptive than I thought,’ said Bilbo shakily, and Thorin saw that his entire body had become as tense as a tightly-coiled spring, and his daemon had half-opened her wings.

‘We mean you no harm, Bilbo, I give you my word,’ said Thorin. ‘I’m…sorry for the loss of your homeland.’

Bilbo peered at him, the line of his shoulders tense.

‘You really are, aren’t you?’ he said, surprised. ‘You really are sorry.’

‘It’s a loss that I can understand,’ said Thorin quietly.

Bilbo looked away, and Thorin allowed him a moment to compose himself.

‘Thank you,’ he said after a moment, his kestrel echoing the sentiment.

‘We’re searching for a new home,’ said the kestrel.

‘Though we have no idea where is safe,’ said Bilbo. ‘We’ve tried several places. The entirety of the West is lost to us, it seems.’

Thorin wanted desperately to reach out, to clasp a friendly hand to Bilbo’s shoulder as he would have done to a friend, but he hesitated too long, and the moment passed.

‘Could you not go East?’

‘East?’ blinked Bilbo, ‘whatever for?’

‘Does Erebor still stand?’

‘Erebor? Yes, it does. Or, at least, as far as I know.’

‘Then go East,’ said Thorin, ‘talk to the King. Persuade him that an influx of Hobbits is exactly what he needs.’

‘Oh, yes, I’m sure he’ll just leap at the chance of taking on a few hundred refugees,’ said Bilbo, ‘you’re not making any sense.’

Thorin feared he wasn’t even making sense to himself. If Erebor still stood, then Thrór was likely still king. If Thrór was still king, then he was also, almost certainly, still gold-mad.

‘There are fertile lands, to the south of Erebor. I was told once that Hobbits are excellent gardeners, and it’s a skill very few Dwarves have. You may be able to strike up a deal with the King – your talents in exchange for shelter and protection.’

Bilbo was staring at him as though he were mad. Thorin felt like someone had slid a hot dagger in between his ribs. It was a look that Thorin was far too familiar with.

‘As simple as that, is it?’ said Bilbo’s kestrel faintly, when Bilbo himself failed to respond.

‘The Dwarves have known hardship as you have done, Bilbo. Remind them of that.’

 _Remind me of that_ , thought Thorin to himself. It was bizarre to think that, somewhere out there, there might be another version of him. If this world's Thorin still had Erebor, and had been unmarred by all the tragedies of a life in exile, then there was a good chance he was still idealistic, and easily moved to kindness.

‘We’ll think about it,’ said Bilbo, laughing breathlessly. ‘I have to say, you’ve certainly paid for lunch – and then some – with this little chat. Has anyone told you you’re very _odd_ , even for a dwarf?’

Thorin choked out a rusty laugh. ‘Yes, once or twice,’ he said.

He was about to go on when a low tug pulled at his stomach, and his wolf leapt to her feet without warning, so quickly that a few nearby hobbits jumped back, despite standing several feet away from her.

Thorin turned his head, looking behind him, at the caves that the Hobbits had set up camp by. One of them, unlike its fellows, looked particularly deep, and appeared to lead back into a tunnel.

The way forward. Thorin knew that with absolute certainty, and clearly his wolf did, too. She looked at him and then at the cave, letting out a low, ‘wuff’.

‘It’s time for us to move on,’ said Thorin, ‘but I must ask just one more question before we leave.’

‘Alright,’ said Bilbo. ‘Though it’s a shame to part ways now. Are you sure you won’t stay a while?’

It was tempting. Thorin was surprised by how tempting it was to stay and converse with this Bilbo that had never heard of the Arkenstone, and who had never been given cause to hate Thorin. Nevertheless, he reached into his coat pocket, drawing out the bead, and held it out to Bilbo.

‘Do you recognise this?’ he asked.

Bilbo frowned a little and shook his head. ‘I don’t. Should I?’ he said.

And there was Thorin’s answer.

‘No, I didn’t expect you to,’ said Thorin, his heart sinking. ‘I thank you for your offer, Mister Baggins, but we must move on. Would you permit us to have our weapons back?’

He stood, and Bilbo followed suit.

‘Yes, I suppose that’ll be acceptable,’ he said, ‘as long as you don’t mind my Hobbits watching you three like hawks as you leave.’

‘Or like kestrels,’ said Bilbo’s daemon.

‘Or like kestrels.’

‘Not at all,’ said Thorin, his eyes searching for Kili and Fili. They were over by the makeshift archery range, surrounded by Hobbits, clearly winning over the camp with their easy smiles and good-natured joking. Thorin caught Fili’s eye and gestured, watching as his nephew’s expression immediately sobered, turning to clap a hand to Kili’s shoulder. Bilbo, meanwhile, had disappeared to fetch their weapons.

‘Is it him?’ asked Fili after he and Kili had made their farewells.

‘No,’ said Thorin, ‘it’s not.’

‘So he’s…another version of Bilbo?’ Kili said.

‘It would seem so. If the Bilbo we knew had led a different life, this would have been the result.’

‘Why _are_ they out here? I thought Hobbits were even keener on their homes than Dwarves,’ said Fili.

‘Later,’ said Thorin, for Bilbo was returning with their confiscated gear.

‘Here you are, then,’ said Bilbo, depositing their various weapons on the ground. He watched as they began the long process of re-sheathing knives, throwing-axes and swords, and fitting belts and loops back into their rightful places.

‘You’re very well armed, aren’t you?’ Bilbo said.

‘A dwarf is always well-armed, Mister Baggins,’ said Fili, slotting his last throwing knife home into its sheath on his boot.

‘We’ll lead you back to the path,’ said Bilbo, ‘and this time, please stay on it? I’ve no idea how you managed to blunder through half of the forest like that.’

‘We were only following Thorin,’ said Kili, trying to smother a cheeky smile. ‘Who is well-known for his navigation skills.’

‘ _I_ was just following our…map,’ said Thorin with a glower at Kili.

Bilbo looked back and forth between them, clearly trying to discern their hidden meaning. ‘Well, if it was a map,’ he said, ‘don’t use it, at least not until you’re out of the forest. It lead you to head right for us.’

‘It did?’ said Fili.

‘Yes, why else do you think we confronted you?’ said Bilbo, ‘if you’d have gone any further you would have stumbled upon the camp, and the camp guards are not quite as lenient as I am. You were lucky I was returning home from a patrol so I could intercept you.’

‘I don’t think we were heading for the _camp_ ,’ said Fili, smiling knowingly in Thorin’s direction.

Thorin knew exactly what Fili was getting at. In this sprawling, dense forest, they had succeeded in bumping into Bilbo within just a few hours of arriving.

Thorin’s sense of direction was leading them directly to Bilbo.

‘I thank you for the food,’ said Thorin.

‘Not at all. You were good – if slightly strange - company.’

‘We are about to be stranger still. There’s no need to lead us back to the path, Mister Baggins – we are heading underground instead.’

‘We are?’ said Kili.

‘We are.’

‘Are you sure?’ said Bilbo incredulously, ‘we checked those caves, I don’t think there’s anything down there. Most of them are dead-ends.’

‘I’m sure we will find a way. We are Dwarves, after all,’ said Thorin.

‘If you’re certain, at least take a torch,’ said Bilbo, ‘we have plenty of dry wood spare.’ He left them for a moment to fetch two sticks from the pile of fuel for the fire, pressing them into their hands.

‘Are you _sure_?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

Bilbo still looked dubious in the extreme. ‘Alright then. But you’ll likely be back here in ten minutes looking very embarrassed when you can’t find a way through.’

‘We’ll take that risk,’ grinned Fili. ‘Thank you again, Bilbo.’

‘Goodbye,’ said Bilbo, shaking his head and smiling.

‘Goodbye, Bilbo,’ Thorin said, ‘think over my suggestion.’

Bilbo smiled at him. ‘I will.’

It felt wrong for Thorin to turn his back on Bilbo, but they had to move on. The Bilbo from their world was still out there, somewhere, and that knowledge urged him forwards.

Before the dark of the cave swallowed them up completely, Thorin seized his last chance to look back, just for a moment. Bilbo stood not far from the mouth of the cave, dressed in his heavy gear, his daemon sitting on his shoulder, watching them go bemusedly. Thorin fixed the image firmly in his mind.

They continued on, into the dark, and the sunlight vanished altogether.

 

 

 

The tunnel did not stop, as Bilbo had promised it would, but wound its way deeper and deeper into the dark. Thorin knew, without even having to test his theory, that if they tried to find their way back to Bilbo’s camp now they would be unable to. Both the eerie forest and the wandering Bilbo’s world were lost to them. The way back was shut.

After a brief discussion, they decided not to light their torches immediately, just in case they needed them later on. Their Dwarven eyes adjusted well enough to the dark, allowing them to see clearly enough that the torches were not necessary.

The wolves took to being underground with an ease that surprised Thorin. He had expected them to dislike such an unnatural setting, but if what Bilbo had said was true, then Thorin’s own soul could hardly be expected to be uncomfortable underground. He was a dwarf, after all.

Their passage reminded Thorin of similar outings into the tunnels of Erebor with his father. There were some stable tunnels, deep in the roots of Erebor that were naturally occurring, and not carved out by Dwarven hands. Thorin’s father had insisted that they not take a light source with them on their trips – it was, he had said, far better to use the gifts that their Maker had given them, and the natural wonders of Erebor’s tunnels were more beautiful to behold in the dark.

They marched all day with only two breaks, and Thorin made sure to relay all that he had learnt from Bilbo to Fili and Kili. He left out the part about why his dameon migh tnot be speaking to him. 

Their hunger had once again dissipated, but they were still able to feel tired, and they had to stop close to nightfall. Thorin called them to a halt in a spacious cavern, and took first watch, his mind too full of all that he had seen and been told that morning to immediately sleep. He felt he needed time to sort through it all. His wolf came to lay next to him, head on her paws.

‘Do you still refuse to speak to me?’ said Thorin to her when he was sure his nephews were asleep.

The wolf perked her head up, looking up at him.

‘I cannot carry on calling you “wolf”,’ said Thorin. ‘If you refuse to give me your name then I will have to give you one.’

The wolf looked distinctly unimpressed at this.

‘Then I shall call you Khael,’ said Thorin, and he gave a brittle smile when her reaction to this was to get up and go and lay at the other end of the cavern, as far as she could from him.

‘It’s a fine name,’ said someone to his right. ‘But I think she would prefer her true name.’

Thorin flinched, shifting from easy watchfulness to sharp readiness in a second.

‘You,’ he said, relaxing infinitesimally when he saw who the speaker was.

‘Me,’ said the ghostly apparition.

She was exactly as she had been back in Erebor, with one minor difference - Thorin’s eyes could just about pick up on the fact that her dress had changed colour, a minor change from sharp white to the palest of greys.

‘I did not think we would be seeing you again,’ Thorin said to her. ‘How are you here?’

‘I can come and go as I please,’ said the woman, taking a seat on one of the many rocks that were scattered around the cavern. ‘And this place is not barred from me.’

‘Why are you here?’

‘I was curious,’ she said, ‘you have not become lost yet. You have instead gained something very valuable along the way.’ She jutted her sharp chin towards Thorin’s wolf, who was watching their exchange warily.

‘That remains to be seen,’ said Thorin, ‘I’m not sure how much use a daemon is.’

‘Take heed, Thorin,’ she said sharply, ‘you will need all the help you can get.’

Thorin gave her a hard look. ‘Why?’ he said, ‘what is there to fear?’

‘You have had an easy time of it, so far,’ she said, ‘it will not always be so.’

‘You speak in vagaries again. If you truly wish to help then _tell_ me what we will face.’

Her eyes dropped, and she said, mournfully, ‘I cannot. The path is different for every being that walks it. I have no more idea of what is to come than you do, save that it will be…’

Her voice trailed off. ‘I cannot say,’ she said in a whisper.

‘Then what use are you?’ said Thorin with no small amount of anger, turning away from her. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her stand from her perch.

‘You speak so rashly,’ she said, ‘and yet your words do not match up to what you know in your heart.’

Thorin snorted.

‘I can only offer you my advice, Thorin. If I had the power to help you further, know that I would.’

He was silent for a good long minute. ‘I know,’ he said at last. 'You have been nothing but truthful, thus far.'

He saw something like a smile light her thin lips, but his eyesight wasn’t sharp enough to be certain.

‘Then you shall have my advice,’ said the ghost. ‘Look to what you have in front of you, and keep your nephews close.’

Thorin heard the sound of fabric shifting over the rocks, and bare feet padding over the cold stone.

‘He will visit you three times, before the end,’ she said, and when Thorin turned to demand that she explain her words, he found himself alone once more.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An important side-note on Bilbo's daemon: it's my own personal headcanon that very, very occasionally, a daemon might settle in a different form than what it would under normal conditions. Bilbo's daemon in this word might have felt like she needed to be something that was more suitable for Bilbo's nomadic lifestyle. 
> 
> Therefore, Bilbo's daemon here might not be the same daemon that _our_ Bilbo has :D
> 
> Next chapter will likely be out next Monday. I didn't expect to get this one out so soon!


	4. Chapter 3

After a scant few hours of sleep, Thorin woke to the dark of the cavern, and for one disorientating second he thought he was back in Erebor’s halls. But the rough cave was nothing like his private room, dishevelled as his room still was and in need of attention that he had not had the time to pay it. The realisation as he came to full wakefulness was jarring, and that and the ghost’s odd warning of the night before left him preoccupied, answering his nephews questions vaguely as they prepared to set off, most of his attention directed elsewhere.

They had another long day of walking ahead of them, with no discernible end in sight. Kíli and Fíli filled the time with conjecture over the previous day’s events, their daemons adding their own thoughts frequently, and more frequently still descending into good-natured play-fighting.

‘I spy with my little eye,’ said Kíli, ‘something beginning with-‘

‘Stalagmites,’ said Fíli flatly.

Kíli looked at him in mock-surprise, ‘how did you guess? Alright then, how about: I spy with my little eye, something-‘

‘If this is ‘rocks’ I am going to punch you,’ warned Fíli.

‘No,’ said Kíli in the tone of voice that implied that yes, it had been rocks. ‘It was stalac _tites_.’

Then, much later on:

‘If that was a different version of Bilbo,’ said Fíli, ‘then, does that mean that there could be more?’

‘Perhaps there’s dozens of Bilbo’s out there,’ said his brother.

They were quiet for a moment as they contemplated this. Thorin could guess where this train of thought would lead, and a second later, he was proved right.

‘If there’s another Bilbo, then maybe there’s another us,’ said Kíli, ‘maybe in that world back there we’re alive and out there somewhere?’

‘In Erebor,’ said Fíli, ‘didn’t you say that Erebor still stood, Thorin?’

‘I did.’

‘Us too,’ said Nârù, ‘if you’re out there somewhere, then so are we.’

‘Or we don’t exist at all,’ Lukhudith said quietly.

Kíli let out a laugh. ‘Of course we exist!’

‘But mother met father in Ered Luin,’ said Fíli with a dawning sense of horror, picking up on his daemon’s thought, ‘if Erebor never fell, she would never have met him.’

‘Maybe she married someone else,’ said Lukhudith.

‘Shut up,’ said Kíli without any real heat, ‘don’t think like that. They might have met, we don’t know that!’

But they were all quiet for a long time, after that.

It was not an idea that Thorin wanted to linger over for long, either. He had never thought of it like that; he had never once contemplated that he might not have known Fíli and Kíli had all his fervent wishes come true and Erebor had remained untouched by Smaug. He reared away from the thought in his mind, trying to put it to one side, but it sat heavy on his heart, and it was followed in quick succession by another:

If Erebor had continued on, unmarred, he would never have met Bilbo Baggins.

Thorin’s insides churned. His people, his father and grandfather and brother, the loss of his home, all of it given in exchange for his nephews and for meeting Bilbo. His bright-eyed, ever-hopeful nephews, his sister-sons, on whose young shoulders the future of Erebor sat. And Bilbo, who had proved him wrong more than once on their journey, in that refreshing, mild-mannered way of his, and whose friendship he had valued dearly, once. With a great amount of effort, Thorin shoved the thought away, deep down, and turned his mind to other things.

Kíli and FIli, meanwhile, could not remain downhearted for long.

‘I wonder if there’s a world out there in which Balin wasn’t such a bore when he taught us history,’ said Kíli musingly some time later.

Fíli snorted. ‘Unlikely.’

‘Or…or one in which Dwalin still has all of his hair.’

Fíli shushed his brother, looking around with an air of worry. ‘He might hear you!’ he said, just to see his brother smile.

There was a small pause.

‘Or a world in which Uncle is not quite so grumpy,’ said Fíli, mock-conspiratorially to Kíli.

Thorin turned to him, eyebrow raised. ‘Or a world in which you can look at an apple without throwing up,’ he said.

Fíli took it in his stride, even as his brother let out a bark of surprised laughter.

‘I’ll have you know I ate a slice of Bombur’s apple pie last week,’ he said, nose in the air.

Thorin looked to Kíli.

‘It’s true,’ grinned Kíli in between chuckles, ‘I swear on Durin’s name, he did.’

Thorin looked back at Fíli and said, in his driest tone, ‘I am very proud of you, Fíli.’

Equally serious, Fíli replied with a heartfelt, ‘thank you, Uncle.’

They were treated to the sound of their daemons laughing in yips and barks, and even Khael, Thorin’s wolf, wagged her tail a few times playfully.

Thorin turned away from them, hiding his smile. No, he did not like to even wonder about the possibility of not having Kíli and Fíli by his side. Khael looked up at him, matching his stride, and Thorin knew they were sharing the same thought.

But even Kíli and Fíli’s spirits began to wane as they made their way down into the depths. They were clearly journeying downwards; any natural light that had fallen through gaps in the rocks and had indicated that they had been close to the surface vanished altogether, leaving them in a darkness so thick even their Dwarven eyes struggled to pick out the details. They began to navigate by touch as well as sight, running their hands along the smooth rock walls and relying on their daemons to call out any dangers or sudden drops.

There seemed no end to it, and though Thorin strained and strained his ears for any hint of running water, all he could hear was the distant _drip, drip_ of rain water making its slow, steady way through porous rock.

They had a brief discussion as to what the rock was, but they quickly declared it limestone. The colour and formations of stalactites and stalagmites, and the way that the rock was alternately smooth and almost slimey and rough in turns was familiar to each of them. There was also a thread of something blue and glittering that occasionally ran through the walls, a gem that none of them recognised. Kíli, though, was sure it was similar to a type of blue, semi-precious fluorite that was found in the mountainous regions to the north of Arda. It was pretty enough, but without any real value.

Thorin had to eventually call a halt to their day, frustrated though he was that they had not found an exit. He had been almost looking forward to seeing something strange if it meant that they could move on to another setting, or another world. A Dwarf fed-up of being underground. Thorin had to marvel at that, but he couldn’t help but feel a sense of disquiet in these tunnels, some sense of foreboding that he couldn’t put his finger on.

Fíli put it into words as he prepared to take the first watch.

‘It feels like we’re waiting for something to happen,’ he said, ‘like we’re on the verge of battle. But I’ve no idea who or what we’re fighting.’

Thorin had to agree. It was that same feeling of anticipation that kept his senses sharp, ready for any hint of danger. He thought that this heightened level of awareness would have made it difficult to sleep, but surprisingly, for the first time in months, he did not have to fight for it, and it instead gently washed over him.

His hand, though, remained firmly on the hilt of Orcrist, even as he slept.

 

 

 

When he opened his eyes, he was stood in a forest clearing heavily cloaked in fog, the outline of the bare branches of the trees almost skeletal through the mist, arching high above his head.

There was a figure stood on the other side of the clearing. Thorin’s heart skipped several beats in quick succession.

‘Bilbo?’ he said, voice breaking.

The figure, dressed in a simple, travel-worn shirt and trousers, turned at the sound of his name.

His own shock was reflected a thousand fold on Bilbo’s face, and Thorin heard the hobbit gasp, even across the few metres that separated them.

Thorin started forward, desperate to clasp Bilbo’s shoulder and know that he was real and not just a trick of the mind. But the second Thorin raised his arm Bilbo flinched backwards, skirting the edge of the clearing, fear now joining shock on his features.

‘Are you…are you afraid of me?’ said Thorin, movements stilling instantly.

Bilbo shook his head, his lips twisting into a bitter smile. ‘Is it any wonder?’ he said.

Thorin felt as though he had been gutted. His hand fell back to his side. For a few moments he couldn’t speak at all for the breath lodged in his throat, heavy as a rock.

‘How are you here?’ he said eventually.

Bilbo’s eyes flitted around the clearing, exhaustion shadowing his eyes. ‘We’re dreaming,’ he said, looking pained, ‘though don’t ask me how that’s possible.’

It didn’t feel like they were dreaming. Their appearances, Bilbo’s voice, the way that Thorin’s heart was straining in his ribcage – all of it had a pin-sharp clarity that spoke of reality rather than dreams.

Thorin, remembering the Bilbo he had met only the day before, reached into his coat and drew out the bead. ‘Do you recognise this?’ he said, holding it out to Bilbo slowly, carefully.

‘Of course I do,’ said Bilbo warily, as though this was a trick question, and Thorin let out a ragged breath. The knowledge that he stood facing Bilbo beat around the inside of his skull, until he could barely think of anything else. It was him. It was _him_.

It was Bilbo’s turn to step forward, his fear forgotten in favour of hearing the answer to his next question. ‘Never mind that,’ he said urgently, ‘Thorin, tell me…is the Company alright? Are Kíli and Fíli?’

Of course, thought Thorin - Bilbo would have no idea who had lived and who had died.

‘They live,’ he said, observing the way Bilbo all but staggered in relief.

‘And Bofur? All of them?’

‘All of them.’

Bilbo fell silent, tilting his body away from Thorin and looking down to the bare forest floor.

‘Thank goodness,’ Thorin heard him whisper, passing a hand over his face, ‘thank _goodness_.’

Thorin’s eyes raked over Bilbo’s frame, taking in the thinness of his wrists and the dark circles under his eyes. If this was Bilbo’s spirit, then the hobbit did not look to be in good health. Was it because he was fighting to stay alive? Thorin wondered. Or was his spirit being affected by his real-world illness?

‘What are you doing here, Thorin?’ said Bilbo sharply, turning back to him, his relief carefully put aside.

‘We are coming to save you.’

‘We?’

‘Kíli and Fíli have come, too.’

Bilbo shook his head. ‘I thought so. I can only see you - I can’t see them,’ he said quietly, half to himself.

‘Then you should know that-‘

‘No, I _don’t_ know,’ cut in Bilbo.

Thorin’s hands open and closed at his side. He wanted to step closer, but he did not dare encroach on Bilbo’s space again. He didn’t think that he could stand to see fear flash through Bilbo’s eyes a second time.

‘Don’t you want to live?’ he asked, though he was terrified of the answer.

‘Of course I do,’ Bilbo answered in a breath, ‘that’s…don’t ask me that. Of _course_ I do.’

‘Then why don’t you want us to come for you?’

Bilbo gave him a hard look.

‘You don’t owe me anything,’ he said.

‘Bilbo-‘

‘You don’t owe me anything, and you made that _very_ clear the last time we…the last time we spoke.’

There was a strained pause. The air was so thick was tension that Thorin struggled to take a breath.

‘I...Bilbo, however we parted, you must know that I would still honour-‘

‘Honour?’ said Bilbo, ashen-faced, ‘is that why you’re doing this?’

‘No-‘ started Thorin, but it was too late; something like resigned anger had settled over Bilbo’s brow.

‘Go back, Thorin. Go back while you still can.’

‘I will not. I _cannot_.’

‘You have to,’ said Bilbo, and he sounded desperate, now. ‘Don’t go a step further.’

‘I refuse,’ Thorin said, and he didn’t want to be angry but it was seeping into his tone all the same. ‘I will not turn back.’

‘You _have_ to.’

Bilbo took such a deep breath that Thorin saw his shoulders rise with the movement. Grief, or something like it, flared in his eyes, and with visible effort he said, in a weary voice:

‘Do you even know why you’re doing this?’

 

 

 

And Thorin flinched awake, his grip instinctively tightening on Orcrist. 

A hand gripped his wrist and a voice called out his name; Thorin resisted for half a moment, the shifting, indistinct setting of his dream overlapping with the pale limestone of the underground, until Kíli’s voice registered, and the world righted itself.

‘Thorin?’ said Kíli again. His nephew was hovering over him, Fíli doing the same on his other side.

‘Alright, I’m awake,’ said Thorin gruffly, trying to shake off the cold fog that seemed to cling to his skin.

Kíli’s eyes snapped to Fíli and back to Thorin again. ‘We couldn’t wake you,’ he said, accusatory.

Thorin sat up, and they backed away to give him space. ‘I was simply sleeping deeply,’ he said. He couldn’t talk about his time with Bilbo. Not yet, at least.

Khael prowled around their sleeping space, restless, her tail straight out behind her. She did not look at Thorin, even as he got to his feet.

‘No harm done,’ said Lukhudith with forced lightness.

‘Yes, let’s be up and off,’ said Nârù.

Thorin ignored them both. Bilbo’s words were ringing in his head like the continuing echo of a struck bell, and the rest of the world was lost to him. He moved through his morning preparations mechanically, and began to lead them without a word to anyone. Khael fell into step with him, her stride long and purposeful, head low as though she were stalking prey.

Kíli and Fíli attempted to coax him out of his reverie with their chatter, but to no avail. His mind was churning with thoughts, and after a few hours in which Thorin refused to pause for a break, they gave up altogether, giving him his space.

Thorin was not aware enough to be appreciative of their thoughtfulness. He walked forwards without much attention paid to where he was going, replaying his and Bilbo’s conversation over and over again in his head. The hobbit did want to live; Thorin could hear the truth to his words even now, hours later. He had seen it in the strain Bilbo carried from fighting to stay alive, strain that had etched itself into Bilbo’s kindly face. He had looked exhausted, even from simply standing.

But above all, Bilbo’s last words to him had shaken Thorin’s resolve. Why was he doing this? It had been so clear to him when he had stepped into the darkness that first time. Bilbo was a member of the Company. He had helped to take back Erebor. Thorin was therefore honour bound-

But it wasn’t just about honour, Thorin realised. He had carried with him a certainty that Bilbo’s life could not – would not – end here, not if he had the power to change his fate. Bilbo deserved to live, no matter what Thorin now felt about the state of their friendship.

That was all there was to it.

‘Is it just me,’ said Kíli, ‘or is it getting _darker_?’

‘No, you’re right,’ said Fíli. ‘It is.’

‘How is that possible?’ said Nârù.

‘I’m not sure.’

Thorin blinked, coming slowly back to the world to find that Kíli was right – against all logic it _was_ darker. So dark, in fact, Thorin could now only faintly see the outlines of rock formations, and only when he strained his sight.

‘Perhaps we should light the torches,’ suggested Fíli.

‘Let’s see if it gets any worse,’ said Thorin.

They quietened for a beat, recovering from their surprise at having their Uncle speak to them again.

‘Can you still see?’ Kíli asked of Nârù.

‘Just about,’ said his daemon.

‘Perhaps we ought to let them guide the way for now. What do you think, Thorin?’

‘Good idea.’

Their daemons stepped in closer, their flanks brushing their Dwarves’ legs – or, in Khael’s case, Thorin’s waist. The feel of rough fur against his fingertips was a shock to Thorin, but he carefully paid it no mind, and Khael seemed to think nothing of it.

On and on they went. The _drip, drip_ that Thorin had heard only occasionally now followed them at every turn. Thorin never found the source, and no matter how far they progressed the sound seemed to be only a few steps away. A shiver ran down Thorin’s spine.

The Dwarves’ eyes could not cope with this new, complete darkness, with not even a hint of light. Even the vague suggestions of before vanished, and they were soon rendered blind, feeling their way over the slippery limestone rock by touch alone, their daemons nudging their legs every time they strayed.

But a few minutes later their daemons were struggling to see, and at last Lukhudith pulled up and refused to go any further.

‘I can’t see anything,’ she said, ‘I’m as blind as you are, Fíli.’

‘We need to light the torches,’ agreed Kíli.

Thorin felt – rather than saw – his nephews and daemons turn to him, awaiting his decision. As loathe as Thorin was to light their only fuel, he saw little choice.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But we light just one at a time.’

Kíli, who had been storing the torches in his quiver, drew one out. Thorin took off one of his under layers and ripped it into strips. His tailor would likely have a fit over the waste of a finely crafted jacket, but to Thorin it was just a piece of cloth, and he was warm enough without it. He wound the strips around one end of the stick and passed it to Fíli, who used his own flint to light the material.

Bright light leapt from the torch, a merry little spark that soon grew to a healthy flame. It threw off a warm orange glow, and their hearts were instantly gladdened by it.

‘That’s better,’ breathed Nârù.

‘Much better,’ said Lukhudith.

With their new light source, the going was much easier to bear, and their pace picked up again accordingly. It brought with it a sense of reassurance that allowed Thorin’s mind to wander once more, and inevitably his thoughts turned to Bilbo – the Bilbo of their world – and how exhausted the hobbit had looked. Against his will, an idea flashed to the forefront of his mind:

How long could Bilbo keep fighting for? The hobbit couldn’t keep fighting forever.

Drip, drip.

Where was the damn _exit_?

The flame spluttered. Thorin paid it no mind. He was too focused on choosing the next pathway, ducking down under an overhanging rock. The light from the torch fell on a series of stalactites, their shadows thrown out swiftly like lances across the floor of the tunnel.

Drip…drip.

His dream had sent his mind tumbling into chaos – anger now sharpened it. He couldn’t let Bilbo die. He would _not_ let Bilbo die, and anything else they had touched upon during their conversation were just empty words, nothing more, and he must put them to one side for the sake of this journey.

Whatever Bilbo felt, whatever Thorin felt, whatever had happened between them was irrelevant. Thorin’s reasons for wanting to save Bilbo were irrelevant. Nothing else mattered, save for rescuing Bilbo.

The darkness began to crowd the bright torchlight.

‘Thorin,’ said Fíli, alarmed, ‘Thorin, I think the torch is going out-‘

Thorin distractedly looked at the torch in his hand, turning to face his nephews. The fire was half the size it had been not so long ago. Kíli’s and Fíli’s worried faces could still just about be seen by the faint, flickering light.

‘It is!’ Kíli confirmed, ‘was the wood wet? Has it burnt through the cloth already?’

‘It wasn’t wet when I lit it,’ said Fíli, ‘and there’s still plenty more cloth to burn before the wood. Maybe it’s the air in here? Maybe it’s thinning?’

‘No,’ said Thorin, staring at the dying flame, ‘it’s the dark. It’s suffocating it.’

‘That’s not possible,’ began Nârù, but she didn’t have a chance to finish.

The fire flared once, so suddenly that they had to shut their eyes against the brightness, and then went out altogether, plunging them into utter darkness.

Someone - Kíli, it sounded like - let out a curse in Khuzdûl. Thorin was inclined to agree. The dark was creeping up his back, sending his neck and shoulders crawling with the feeling of being watched. They were now blind and defenceless, and who knew what was out there, in the shadows.

‘Fíli,’ he said, ‘can you light it again?’ He held out the torch, expecting his nephew to reach out and take it, but nothing happened.

Khael began to growl, low and threatening.

‘Fíli?’ said Kíli.

‘It can’t smell him,’ said Nârù, her voice edged with panic, ‘I can’t smell either of them. Kíli, Kíli-’

‘Fíli!’ said Thorin, concentrating fiercely with his other senses. No answer. His nephew’s name echoed down the tunnel.

‘Fíli? Come on, brother, this isn’t funny,’ said Kíli with a breathless laugh. Khael’s growls grew to snarls, a deep, thrumming background noise to their growing worry.

‘Kíli, they’re gone,’ said Nârù, and there came the sound of paws padding up and down the stretch of their tunnel, ‘they’re _gone_.’

Kíli all but shouted Fíli’s name, and Thorin could feel him turning this way and that.

Breathing raggedly, Thorin reached out to where he thought Kíli might be. He connected with what felt like Kíli’s shoulder, and he gripped it like a life line.

‘Kíli, the torch, we need light - do you have any flint?’

Nârù’s low whines where now threading through Khael’s snarls.

‘No, we need to find him, how could he just-’

‘Kíli, the light - we need to be able to see,’ said Thorin as calmly as he could manage, and Kíli’s restless movements halted.

‘Alright,’ said his nephew, breathing sharply through his nose. The sound of fabric rustling and their breathing was deafeningly loud in the empty tunnel, and when Kíli - through touch alone - struck flint on stone and Thorin flinched at the sharp noise.

A bright spark leapt from the tinder, but it did not take to the cloth. Kíli struck again, and another spark issued and did not take. Kíli let out a sob and held his breath. He struck again, and at last the cloth began to burn.

The fire grew and grew, and as soon as it was big enough, Thorin twisted and turned in the tunnel with it held in his hand, looking into every fissure and fault. There was no sign of Fíli or his daemon.

‘But he was standing right next to me,’ said Kíli, ‘he was _right there_! How could he have just vanished like that?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Thorin, shaking his head sharply. ‘But he can’t have gone far - let’s retrace our footsteps.’

Khael’s growls had quietened when the torch had been lit. She now stepped in closer to Nârù, so close that their grey fur mingled and they appeared to be two wolves of similar size, striding side-by-side.

They went back the way they had come, trying to recall familiar rock formations or groupings of stalactites to help their way. They called out Fíli’s name at regular intervals, straining to hear any faint reply. 

Fifteen minutes passed without any hint of Fíli or Lukhudith.

‘This isn’t possible,’ muttered Thorin to himself. Where on Arda _was_ he? How could he have disappeared without a whisper of a sound?

‘Fíli! _Fíli_!’ Kíli called, no longer bothering to wait for a reply. He sounded on the edge of full-blown panic.

The darkness crowded in on them, just as it had the torch. Thorin began to fear what lay beyond the ring of light thrown out by the fire. His daemon seemed to have similar reservations - unlike Nârù, who was now darting backwards and forwards, as far from Kíli as she could go, Khael was staying firmly within the circle of light. Thorin looked at her, taking in her watchfulness, the tense lines of her haunches.

‘Kíli,’ said Thorin, overcome with a sudden sense of foreboding, ‘Kíli, stop calling for him.’

Kíli seemed not to hear him.

‘ _Kíli_ ,’ said Thorin again, grabbing his nephew’s arm. Kíli turned to him, eyes wide and looking as terrified as Thorin felt. ‘Stop shouting for him.’

‘Why?’ said Kíli immediately, trying to wrench his arm away from Thorin’s grip. ‘We need to-’

‘Because there may be _others_ listening.’

‘What? What do you mean? Who’s listening?’

‘I don’t know,’ Thorin said, ‘but don’t you feel that? It’s as though we’re being watched.’

Kíli looked away, into the dark. A stale, dry wind rattled through the tunnel, ruffling the ends of his hair. ‘So what do we do?’ he said, restraining his panic with a visible effort. Nârù had returned to his side, pressing into his leg with her head.

‘We look for him quietly, and only call out if we must,’ said Thorin, ‘agreed?’

Kíli gave a small nod.

‘And stay within the torchlight. Do not wander off.’

 _I can’t bear losing both of you_ , thought Thorin. He was barely holding onto his nerves as it was.

They began to retrace their steps methodically, going back over old ground. They conversed only in Iglishmêk when necessary, and only then when deciding which path to chose. Kíli became paler and paler as they walked, his jaw locked so tightly that Thorin could see a muscle tensed and bunching in his cheek.

Thorin lead the way with Khael, but he insisted on Kíli and Nârù walking by his side when the width of the tunnel allowed it. He would not let either of them out of his sight, and Khael appeared to agree; she flanked Nârù, who walked on Kíli’s left side, so that Thorin and Khael protected them on both sides.

Thorin lost all track of time. Had it been mere minutes since they had lost Fíli, or hours? There was no end to it, and with every passageway that was shown to be empty, Thorin’s fears multiplied. It felt as though there was an iron bar around his chest.

Then, out of the dark, they heard a scream.

‘ _Fíli_!’ cried Kíli in an instant, forgetting all that he and Thorin agreed. He leapt forwards, body as tense as a bowstring.

The sound had pierced Thorin’s breast. That was Fíli screaming, he was sure of it.

It took a great deal to make Fíli scream like that.

In the breath after the scream, the silence enclosed them once more. There was a moment of waiting, of waiting for something, anything else that might indicate where Fíli was, and when nothing came, Kíli darted forwards, into a tunnel, charging recklessly into the dark, Nârù following. Thorin called out to them, but it was of no use, and he was left with no choice but to follow them.

Kíli refused to stop, and it was all Thorin could do to keep him within the light of the torch. Khael overtook Thorin in powerful, long strides, and Thorin knew her intent: she was faster than Thorin, and could take a hold of Nârù’s ruff and force her to stop. Oddly, the idea that Khael could physically stop Kíli did not seem to be an option.

Khael was almost upon Nârù when it happened again. Another scream tore through the tunnels, this one tempered with as much anger as pain. Its effect on Kíli was instantaneous, and he stopped mid-stride. He glanced around at what he could see, unsure as to which route to take. The scream could have come from any direction – the sound of it had been oddly distorted by the maze of tunnels. Fíli and Lukhudith could be right around the corner or miles away and they’d never know.

Trying to hold on to reason, Thorin stepped into Kíli’s line of sight.

‘Kíli, Kíli, _look at me_ ’, he demanded, continuing only when Kíli did so, ‘we cannot split up. If we are to find him then we _must_ go about this logically, or else we will wander these tunnels forever without any hope of ever finding him.’

‘He’s in _pain_ , Uncle,’ said Kíli, ‘what are they doing to him?’

‘I don’t know.’ Thorin didn’t want to think about it. ‘We _will_ find him, Kíli. But we need to stick together. Understood?’

‘Alright,’ said Kíli, through his shoulders rose and fell in great heaves.

‘Come, this way,’ said Thorin, taking them into the nearest tunnel, trying to map out the cave system in his head from the route they had taken so far. The mental map kept falling apart, though, every time he recalled Fíli’s scream.

Wherever they went Thorin thrust the torch before them, seeking Fíli’s figure in every shadow, searching for the bright gold of Lukhudith’s fur at every turn.

More screaming, this time accompanied by a pained yelp, and Thorin heard Kíli let out an anguished cry. Thorin’s nerves were in tatters, strained to breaking point, and his previously methodical movements became erratic. He stalked forwards, around a bend, the torch’s light arcing out and around, filling the space with light, revealing it in its entirety.

And Thorin stood stock still, his veins filling with ice.

For there before him stood Frerin, his little brother, staring up at him with pale, dull eyes. He was dressed as he had been the last time Thorin had seen him, in the armour he had worn during the Battle of Azanulbizar. The armour that he had died in.

His cheeks were smeared with soot. His golden hair was mired in red blood and black blood and muck. His chest plate was drenched in more blood still, and rent on one side, revealing the gaping wound that had killed him.

Khael let out a low keening sound at Thorin’s side. He could do nothing but stare at his brother, at the young dwarf who was caught on the cusp of adulthood, but who would never obtain it. Every muscle in his body was frozen.

Frerin’s cracked, stained lips moved. ‘Was it worth it, brother?’ he said, and blood leaked from the edges of his mouth as he spoke. ‘Was it worth it?’

‘Thorin!’ said Kíli suddenly, and Thorin and Khael whipped around at the sound of his name, the torch moving with him. He moved it back a second later, the light thrown out into the dark once more. Frerin had vanished as though he had never been there.

‘Thorin, Nârù thinks she can smell them!’ said Kíli, clearly oblivious to what Thorin had just seen and his Uncle’s distress.

‘Come on!’ he said, hauling at Thorin’s shoulder, ‘this way!’

Dazed, Thorin let him lead, not even questioning it when Kíli took the torch from his hand. Khael ran beside him, her once effortless stride now hesitant. With Nârù in hot pursuit it was all Thorin and Kíli could do to keep up, not even caring as to what dangers they might stumble over. Their trail lead them to a huge, open space, filled with all manner of strange contortions in the rock, and as Nârù directed them down the nearest tunnel they all but ran into Fíli.

‘Brother!’ said Kíli, his relief and delight and worry all conveyed in that one word, ‘where-‘

But Thorin had seen the knife in Fíli’s hand, had seen the way Lukhudith was snarling, teeth bared, and he grabbed Kíli before he could take another step.

‘You!’ growled Fíli, the dagger held out defensively in front of him. His wide eyes darted around the cave, and Thorin saw him swallow thickly.

Kíli all but threw off Thorin, staring incomprehensively at Fíli and the dagger held in his hand. ‘Brother,’ he said again urgently, ‘are you well? We heard you scream, we...we feared the worst.’

Fíli’s face twisted in distress, and a fine tremor ran through the arm holding the dagger. ‘Tell me you’re real!’ he snapped, ‘promise me you’re real!’

‘We’re real,’ said Thorin, holding out one empty hand as though Fíli were a spooked beast.

‘How do I know that?’ said Fíli brokenly. There was blood on his lips, Thorin saw, and he was forcibly reminded of Frerin’s ghost. ‘How do I know you’re…you’re not just some _trick_?’

Nârù started forward, body low and unthreatening. ‘Lukhudith,’ she said to Fíli’s growling daemon, ‘it’s us. We’ve been looking for you.’

'Don't you recognise us?' said Kili. 

‘I don’t…’ started Fíli, shaking his head and grimacing, ‘I don’t trust you.’

‘We’re as real as you are, Fíli,’ said Thorin, daring to take a step forwards and trying not to look at the dagger in Fíli’s hand. Kíli hung back, unsure, swaying in place like he desperately wanted to reach for Fíli.

Fíli’s whole body began to shake.

‘I swear it, Fíli,’ said Thorin soothingly. ‘We’re real, and we’re not going to hurt you. There's no need to be afraid.’

Thorin was so close now that he could have taken a hold of Fíli’s hand, wrenched the dagger from him, made sure that he did not hurt himself - or anyone else. But he refrained; the last thing Fili needed now was a real reason to be afraid, not when he looked to be functioning on a combination of terror and instinct. But though Thorin's movements were slow and careful, Fíli flinched when he realised how close Thorin was, and Thorin had to restrain every single battle-hardened instinct he had when Fíli’s dagger flicked upwards accidentally.

‘We were looking for you,’ Thorin said, holding eye contact. ‘You’re safe, now. You’re _safe_ .’

He took a chance, and reached out to draw Fíli into an embrace. At first Fíli remained tense, resisting the offer of comfort, and Thorin feared that he might still strike out at him. But then Fíli’s whole body went limp, and his dagger fell from his lax grip to clatter to the floor.

Kíli stepped in, throwing his arms around Thorin and Fíli both. A single sob wracked Fíli’s frame, and then no more. Khael and Nârù had all but done the same to Lukhudith, surrounding her and nuzzling into her, letting her know that there was no more reason to worry.

 

 

 

With Fíli and Lukhudith now relatively calm, Thorin insisted that he see to Fíli’s injuries, sitting his sister-son down by the wall of the cave. But it turned out that Fíli had simply bitten the inside of his cheek so hard that he had drawn blood, which explained the blood on his lips. The palms of Fíli’s hands, meanwhile, had crescent moons cut into them, just above where Fíli’s leather gauntlets finished, and the wounds were bleeding sluggishly. Fíli’s bloodied fingernail revealed exactly how the wounds had been inflicted. They had no water, and so Thorin was left with no choice but to spit on a spare bit of cloth to clean the cuts, going about it methodically and carefully, until Fíli’s hands were clean once more.

Fíli bore Thorin’s examinations with a detached air, staring past Thorin into the dark, his eyes watchful and still full of fear, never staying in one place for long. Lukhudith was burrowed into his side, and daemon and dwarf were still shaking slightly, but not from the cold. Thorin put his coat around Fili's shoulders all the same.

Kíli hovered uncertainly, at a loss for what to do. He tried sitting on Fíli’s other side, pressing his arm to Fíli’s, but his brother didn’t even seem to notice the effort. Thorin reflected that if their positions had been reversed, Fíli would have known exactly what to do and say, or what Kíli would have needed.

None of them wanted to ask what Fíli had seen.

‘We’ll rest a while,’ said Thorin, when the quiet had stretched on for too long. ‘There’s still a while until nightfall, but we’ll see if we want to continue after a short break.’

The words, _if Fíli is well enough_ was left unsaid.

‘Nightfall?’ said Fíli with a faint frown, blinking out of his reverie for a moment. His voice sounded as though he had been gargling glass, and with a start Thorin realised why – his throat must be raw from screaming. 

‘But I was…I was gone for half a day at least.’

Thorin and Kíli looked at each other, alarmed.

‘Fíli,’ said Kíli carefully, ‘you were gone for an hour at most. And even that was long enough,’ he added bitterly.

‘An hour?’ echoed Fíli quietly. ‘That doesn’t make any sense. It was definitely longer than that.’

None of it made sense, and Thorin struggled to relate it to anything he knew or experienced before. Even the surreal landscape of Mirkwood had had its rules.

Fíli lapsed into silence, eyes losing their focus, sliding away from Kili and Thorin. They watched him carefully, neither of them wanting to move on just yet. Fíli looked exhausted, and they could all do with a rest.

The minutes ticked by, counted only by the fire steadily eating its way through the torch still held in Kíli’s hand. Eventually, whatever tension that had been keeping Fíli going started to seep from his body, and Thorin saw him slowly succumb to sleep. Lukhudith had, by this stage, all but clambered onto Fíli’s lap, though she was so large only her front half could fit. Her nose was buried into the front of his jacket, and Fíli’s arms were wrapped around her so tightly that it surely must be causing her pain.

Thorin thought of his little brother’s ghost, seen only for a split-second, and tried to repress a shudder. Had he really seen Frerin, or had it been a trick of the mind? If there was evil lurking in these tunnels, then it seemed to prey on their worst nightmares. He felt sick at the thought of what Fíli might have seen. Whatever had caused him to cry out like that, it had not been any physical wound.

‘Is this our penance?’ said Kíli into the unquiet dark, looking at his brother.

Thorin drew in a breath. 

‘There is nothing for you and Fíli to make penance for.’

‘No. There is,’ said Kíli firmly, voice steely. ‘We stood by and did nothing when you…’

It didn’t need to be said, but Thorin flinched all the same.

Thorin had no idea what to say to that, and Kíli’s words were left uncomfortably hanging in the air between them. Thorin desperately wished that his sister were here. She had always been so much better at comfort than Thorin. He could distinctly remember her caring for him and Dwalin and Balin in the aftermath of Azanulbizar, the way that her hands had been gentle even as she tried to restrain her overwhelming grief, and her anger.

But Thorin was certain of one thing. If this _was_ penance, then it was penance for him, not for Kíli and Fíli. 

Perhaps this journey wasn’t just about saving Bilbo after all.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, this chapter got too long and had to be split into two.
> 
> I have to say, I have been loving all of your thoughts and theories about this story! Thank you very much to everyone who's commented so far!
> 
> Next chapter should be out within a week.


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this is so late! I've been just overwhelmed with work these last two weeks. I've also gone back over the first chapters and edited them because I wasn't 100% happy with them - nothing major has changed, I've just tweaked a few lines of dialogue.
> 
> The next chapter is almost done, and should be out by the end of the week.

When Fíli stirred, an hour after their reunion, Thorin and Kíli made sure they were both busy doing other things – Kíli looking to his bow, Thorin ripping up the last parts of his jacket to make another torch. Neither Kíli nor Thorin wanted to hover over Fíli - they knew such attention would be unwelcome, but Fíli glanced at them only once as he rose, still as pale as a ghost, and he handed Thorin’s coat back to him without a word.

‘Fíli,’ started Kíli hesitantly, ‘we can always-‘

‘I’m fine,’ said Fíli, summoning up a vague smile, looking somewhere over Kíli’s left shoulder.

Kíli looked to Thorin, to Lukhudith, and back to Fíli again, fear and worry overshadowing his eyes. He opened his mouth to protest, to insist that they rest some more, but after a moment of indecision he held his tongue. 

There was still an hour or two before nightfall, by Thorin’s reckoning, and he hoped that walking would help Fíli to focus on something else, rather than stewing on his own thoughts. They were deathly quiet as they set off from their resting place. Kíli brought up the rear, Thorin taking the lead as usual. Lukhudith was all but glued to Fíli’s side, so close that she was surely in danger of tripping him up.

With another two hours of walking ahead of them, with no discernible end in sight, Thorin found it hard not to let his frustration, or his helplessness over Fíli’s ordeal show as he walked. His nephews were relying on him to lead them. He couldn’t show them that he was afraid that they might never leave this place, and that there might be worse things ahead.

But then Thorin lead them out of a claustrophobic tunnel, and they found themselves standing in a huge, spacious cavern, and what they found there gave them pause.

For there, high above their heads, was a huge body of water suspended perfectly on the ceiling of the cave. It was as though they were looking at a clear, deep lake, its surface so calm that it looked like a highly polished mirror. They could see themselves reflected in the water, a grouping of three Dwarves and three wolves, all in various stages of exhaustion, peering up at the impossible thing with wide, disbelieving eyes.

‘Is it…is it going to fall on us?’ said Kíli worriedly.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Thorin, tense. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from their reflection, despite knowing that it would be safer to move on. If the water suddenly decided to conform to logic and descend on them, its weight would surely cause them harm.

‘Look,’ said Fíli, ‘the cave…the reflection of the cave…it’s changing.’

And it was. The pale, subtle stone of the cave floor shifted before their very eyes, the water rippling, shadows overlapping and reforming, colours brightening to earthy tones, and were those roots that Thorin could see? And the trunks of great trees?

If the reflection was to be believed, they were now standing in the middle of a forest.

A horn blast in the distance caused them to flinch, tearing their eyes away from the lake, and with a startled gasp Thorin turned in place, his nephews and their daemons doing the same. Gone was the cave, gone was the lake, and in their place were twisting, tall trees, their bark a rusty dark brown, their branches long and trailing, weaving together to create an almost architectural canopy above their heads. It was just starting to snow, too, the first few flakes gently landing on his shoulders and paling the forest floor.

But Thorin had no time to wonder at the all-too familiar trees, or the onset of snow, for they were stood before a set of huge gates, set into a hill, the heavy wood emblazoned with an elaborate set of antlers in gilded gold. The symbol was elegant and curling, the work of a master blacksmith, and utterly unmistakable.

Mirkwood. They were in Mirkwood.

Thorin could see the trepidation in Fíli and Kíli’s eyes. Mirkwood had not been a pleasant experience for any of them, and though Thorin and the Elvenking had parted on something approaching amicable terms, he was hardly at ease before the very same place where he had been held prisoner and interrogated.

Another horn blast, and the sound of clattering hooves. Thorin’s eyes darted around the space, torn between the urge to flee and the desire to stand his ground. He had retreated from Thranduil’s forces too many times in one lifetime for his Dwarven pride to bear.

But within the space of a heartbeat, the decision was taken from him. A company of Elves rounded the corner, and Thorin, Kíli and Fíli instinctively moved into a circle, back to back, their wolves growling warily at their sides. Two members of the party were riding in the lead, and as they approached the Dwarven huddle they smoothly dismounted from their horses with fluid Elven grace, one of them steadying her excited horse.

Thorin recognised both of them. His hand started to creep towards the dagger that sat in his belt.

‘Prince Thorin!’ said Prince Legolas, striding towards them, colour high on his cheeks from the ride and the hint of a warm smile on his lips. Behind him the rest of his party began to dismount, either purposefully or accidentally surrounding them as they did so. A hunting party, if the game strapped to the back of the horses was anything to go by.

Thorin all but snarled to hear his name used so jovially by someone who had threatened him not so long ago. But there was no hint of cold, ruthless aggression on this Legolas’ face, and his bow stayed firmly on his back, and Thorin had to remind himself that this was not the Legolas of his world. This Legolas did not appear to harbour any hatred towards them.

‘I did not think we would be seeing you for another week,’ said Legolas, oblivious to the tension his presence had caused, ‘had we known you were coming, we would have made sure you had a grander welcome than a dirty, tired hunting party.’

The Elves did not look dirty, or tired. They looked pristine as they ever were. The other lead rider, the female elf, handed the reins of her horse over to another and joined Legolas.

‘Though it does mean that we shall have enough to satisfy even Dwarven hunger,’ said the elf with a quick smile and a low bow. By her red hair and the short daggers at her belt, Thorin knew her to be Tauriel, Captain of the Guards.

Thorin, unable to respond to this amicable banter, so unlike anything he had previously experienced, was saved by Kíli, who stepped forward to say,

‘I think you’ll need another hunting party for that,’ he scoffed, but Thorin could hear the tremor underlying his tone.

Tauriel’s fleeting smile bloomed into an outright grin. ‘Perhaps you could join us next time, should your business not constrain your time here.’ Her eyes flicked curiously to the wolves at their sides. ‘You seem to have come prepared. Are these hunting dogs?’

Thorin very distinctly heard Nârù let out an indignant yelp at that, which Kíli had to cover by pretending to cough. 

Tauriel frowned. ‘Are you unwell, Your Highness?’ she said, eyes darting back to Legolas worriedly. Her concern was surely excessive, Thorin thought with a great deal of annoyance. It was only a cough.

‘No, just…something stuck in my throat,’ said Kíli with a glare at Nârù. He pressed a hand to her head and said, ‘and to answer your question: yes. Yes they are. Newly bred in Erebor.’

Thorin had a distinct feeling that their daemons would have something to say about that, as soon as they were able. As it was Nârù nipped at Kíli’s leg in reprimand, but she thankfully held her silence for now.

‘Well, keep them away from the horses, if you please,’ said Tauriel, ‘they look vicious. Have you bred them with _wolves_?’

‘Something like that,’ muttered Fíli, his hand idly patting Lukhudith’s neck.

‘You have come without much in the way of an entourage,’ said Legolas, thankfully moving their conversation away from their daemons. His gaze alighted briefly on their travel stained clothes, and the obvious lack of mounts, and Thorin saw confusion – quickly covered up - flicker over the elf’s face. ‘Was your visit urgent? Do you need to see my father straight away? He is in counsel, now, but-’

‘No!’ said Thorin a little too forcefully, and then got a hold of his voice, ‘no, not at all. We merely…wanted to travel without much fuss. That was the only reason.’

‘Well, then, we’ll have someone show you to your usual rooms,’ said Tauriel, ‘and we’ll let our King and Queen know you have arrived as soon as we can. It was good to see you again,’ she added politely, but Thorin took note of the way her eyes lingered over Kíli when she said this, and a low anger began to burn in his gut.

‘I will see you at dinner, Prince Thorin,’ said Legolas, ‘I have a book that I am certain you will find interesting. I shall bring it to the table.’

He dipped his head in acknowledgement, and Tauriel bowed once more, and they moved away to help with the horses, leaving Thorin to try and rearrange everything he knew about Mirkwood’s Elves in his head. Another elf stepped forwards and he tensed, but the elf’s hands were free of weapons, and he was merely gesturing inside. This must be their guide, then.

Thorin looked out, beyond the hunting party, into the dark of Mirkwood. This was their last chance to flee. The great gates were opening. Guards, dressed in gleaming armour, were appearing to help take the horses inside. They could slip out now and no one would ever know.

But the tugging at his heart was, much to Thorin’s consternation, not coming from Mirkwood, but from inside Thranduil’s Kingdom.

‘What do we do?’ hissed Kíli, ignoring the now slightly confused guide.

‘We go in,’ said Thorin under his breath.

‘We _do_?’

‘Yes,’ said Thorin though gritted teeth.

‘This way, Your Highnesses,’ said the guide politely.

And Thorin saw no choice but to follow, and he loathed every step he took into enemy territory.

 

 

 

They were lead away from Tauriel and Legolas, to what Thorin could only assume was the guest wing of the palace. He remained tense throughout the ordeal, his mind at war with his heart as they were lead deeper and deeper into Thranduil’s kingdom.

Their guide eventually stopped before a set of elaborate doors, bracketed by merrily blazing torches.

‘You will find your rooms much as they were last time you were here, Your Highnesses,’ said the elf. ‘I must apologise that there is no food on the table, but if you are hungry, we can arrange for some to be brought before the evening meal.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Thorin. His stomach ached in protest, his hunger returned to him a thousand-fold, but he wanted to be free of Elves as soon as he could.

The elf nodded. ‘Very good. And, as ever, we can wash your travelling clothes for you. Just leave them in the usual place and we will be happy to take care of them. I will take my leave of you now, unless there is anything else-‘

‘No. You are dismissed,’ Thorin said tersely.

The elf took no offence to the shortness of his tone. He gave a low bow and finally, thankfully, left them in peace.

‘Thorin,’ said Kíli slowly, ‘are we…are we _friends_ with the Elves?’

Thorin shot him a glare. The same thought had crossed his mind, but he could not accept it. In lieu of answering Kíli’s question, he opened the doors. What was revealed was a wide, open living space, elegantly decorated with rich, heavy red drapes and colourful tapestries of hunting scenes. Several alcoves set into the walls held stiffly-posing Elven statues, each one a holding lantern in their hands. A long, _dwarf_ -sized dining table and chairs were set up to one side, in a patch of naturally-occurring light that fell from a gap in the ceiling, and to the left lay a corridor that lead away to another set of rooms – presumably their private rooms.

‘We have our own _rooms_ ,’ said Fíli faintly, having stepped in far enough to look down the corridor.

Kíli let out a laugh that sounded far too strained. ‘Better than our last set of rooms, eh?’ he said, nudging Fíli in his side. Fíli gave a fleeting half-smile in response, and Kíli’s attempt at a grin slipped from his face.

Thorin strode past them both to try one of the doors. Behind it lay a huge bedroom, complete with a four poster bed, a writing desk and chair, two heavy chests, and a set of wardrobes, all in the same dark wood. The wardrobes and chests, when he opened them, contained shelf after shelf of Dwarven outfits, all neatly tidied away. Thorin plucked a couple of them out at random, and found that the wardrobes contained everything from simple leather hunting jackets and tunics, to more elaborate courtly fashions and luxurious furs. The fit of the tunic he had in his hand suggested a slimmer Dwarf than Thorin. Kíli’s room, then.

Thorin told him as such, and Kíli was there in a moment to investigate, Nârù pushing her nose into the wardrobe to sniff curiously at the clothing.

‘Definitely ours,’ she declared.

‘And this one’s mine,’ said Fíli, on the threshold of another room. Lukhudith was at his side, and Thorin observed that while Fíli was looking in to his room, she was watching Thorin and Kíli with sharp eyes.

Thorin looked to his own daemon, but found that Khael was already at the end of the corridor, stood expectantly by a room that Thorin presumed was his. Begrudgingly, Thorin could admit that the clothes he found in the room’s heavy trunks and in the wardrobes were all things he would wear, if he were visiting foreign royalty. But the very fact that they had such complete outfits permanently in Mirkwood implied that they were used to staying in Thranduil’s halls - and for long periods, too. Such a fact did not sit well with Thorin at all.

Putting aside speculation for a moment, there was an advantage to having perfectly-tailored clothes to hand - they were all desperately in need of a change of clothes. They had each been armed when they had left Erebor, but they had also been dressed in far more elaborate clothes than a journey like theirs called for. Before Thorin’s very eyes were tunics and jackets and coats that were all much more suited to a long journey, and his travel-stained clothes could do with being refreshed. 

He would keep his own armour; he did not trust any armour or weapons that he found in stored in the room. But his tunic and breeches were exchanged for new, and more importantly _clean_ ones – they were not anything particularly fancy, but instead something he suspected the Thorin of this world would wear to hunt in. Thorin had no idea when they would be moving on, after all, and they needed to be ready and prepared at any moment for a change in circumstance.

Task complete, and feeling much better for it, Thorin selected a heavy, furred coat from the chest at the foot of the bed. Khael pressed her nose to the fur briefly when he pulled it free of the chest, giving a low bark of what sounded like approval to Thorin’s ears.

When he re-entered the hall, he found that Kíli and Fíli had had the same idea, and were now wearing a fresh set of clothes each. Kíli was pacing around the perimeter, looking interestedly at the tapestries, wearing a new long coat that was intricately embroidered with geometric patterns at the hem, and a new set of boots. Nârù, meanwhile, was sitting by Lukhudith, Lukhudith in turn laying at Fíli’s feet. Fíli was sat at the table, fiddling with the sleeves of the thick jacket – in deep, crimson red – that sat on his shoulders.

‘Are we to impersonate ourselves, then?’ said Kíli when he saw Thorin enter. ‘This is a stranger world than the last one.’

‘It would seem so,’ said Thorin, taking a seat.

‘At least the Kíli of this world has good taste,’ said Kíli, looking down at his coat. He glanced over at his brother. ‘Not too sure about Fíli, though.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ Fíli said tiredly, ‘I think you’ll find this is very fashionable in Erebor.’

Kíli laughed, far harder than such a weak joke called for. Thorin’s felt his heart settle a little.

‘And _we’ll_ be relegated to hunting dogs, I suppose,’ said Nârù with a sigh.

‘It was the best I could think of at short notice,’ said Kíli apologetically.

‘It was quick thinking, Kíli,’ Thorin said, and Fíli murmured his agreement. ‘Even if it is undignified, I don’t think we have any other way of hiding you without suspicion. I am sorry, Khael.’

Khael merely gave a small growl of derision, as though the whole thing were beneath her.

‘Sorry,’ said Kíli to Nârù. Fíli, meanwhile, stroked a thumb over one of Lukhudith’s ears in apology.

‘It’s alright,’ said Nârù. ‘But don’t blame me if I have a moment of forgetfulness and let something slip.’

‘Duly noted,’ said Thorin dryly.

‘But back to our problem…the Elves seem to think we are their friends. Allies,’ Kíli amended at Thorin’s look. ‘Do you think…do you think that, in this world, Smaug never came to the mountain?’

‘What makes you say that?’ said Thorin, frowning at him.

‘It’s the only reasonable explanation for this madness,’ said Fíli for Kíli, glancing at his brother. ‘If Smaug never came, then we’d still be allies with Thranduil.’

But Thorin was shaking his head even before Fíli had finished. He hated to disprove his nephew’s theories, particularly when Fíli was opening up again after his ordeal in the tunnels, but neither Kíli nor Fíli knew the exact nature of the alliance that had once existed between Mirkwood and Erebor.

‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s more than that. Thranduil’s son would not have welcomed us so warmly into his home, even if that were true and we _were_ still allies. The Elves hated us.’

‘Even before-‘

‘Even before Smaug.’ Thorin said firmly. He could hear the unanswered question hovering in the air, could sense Kíli’s curiosity. He shifted uncomfortably and continued, ‘Thrór…Thrór was not…my grandfather and the Elvenking allied out of necessity – or it was necessity for Thranduil, at least. Thrór never let him forget the power of Erebor, how Erebor’s riches far outstripped Thranduil’s. Nor did he let him forget the terrible history that our two races share.’

‘Well…as unlikely as it is,’ said Kíli, attempting to absorb this new piece of information, ‘and whatever the reason, we’re welcome in Thranduil’s kingdom.’

‘We must take advantage of this,’ said Thorin, ‘Legolas thought our arrival was strange, but he did not question our presence here.’

‘But why _are_ we here?’ said Nârù, ‘in the last world we met Bilbo, which I can understand – he’s the whole reason we’re on this quest, after all! But why put us right in the middle of our enemy’s Kingdom?’

‘I have no idea,’ Thorin said lowly. ‘Perhaps this is a test of our patience,’ he added, only half-serious.

‘I think your patience is about to be tested further,’ said Fíli, looking to the half-open doors.

Their Elven guide was stood in the doorway, and he bowed politely when he had their attention. ‘The evening meal will be served soon,’ he said, ‘but first my King and Queen would like to greet you properly, if you are amenable. This way, please.’

 

 

If their guide thought it odd that their wolves accompanied them to dinner, he showed no sign of it. With great trepidation, Thorin and his nephews followed the elf through the sprawling palace grounds, and Thorin was glad that Khael was padding along at his side. Orcrist was too conspicuous to take to the dinner table, and Thorin would have to make do with the two daggers that sat in his belt, but Khael, he was beginning to realise, was a formidable weapon in her own right. They would not be going to Thranduil unarmed.

The brightly-lit passage ways were wide and open, decorated with beautifully engraved archways, winding vines twining their way through the stone architecture to lend the brown-grey rock a festive look. It was a far cry from their last visit, when a heavily-armed guard had flanked them on all sides and lead them through some of the lesser-used routes to the throne room, so that the Company saw as little of Thranduil’s kingdom as possible.

But their destination was not the cavernous, imposing throne room, designed to inspire awe; instead they found themselves in what Thorin could only assume was an anteroom that lay not far from Thranduil’s throne. The architecture and style was similar in design, but the space was greatly reduced, and without the sudden drop. It was here that Thorin found himself once again in front of the Elvenking, and he could not shake the feeling that he was a prisoner of this kingdom, though his hands remained unshackled and free.

Thranduil was not alone. On the raised dais at the far end of the room stood the tall, regal form of the Elvenking. At his side stood a woman who nearly equalled him in height. She was clothed in greens and silvers, in a heavy, finely-tailored dress with an intricately embroidered cloak over the top, which was clasped at one shoulder with a huge, glittering amber jewel. Her long, unbound, red-gold hair fell to her waist in a shimmering wave. Her features were delicate, her chin and nose sharp, but there was a tilt to her full lips, a sparkle in her grey eyes that hinted of humour beyond her otherwise expressionless face.

There was a crown sat upon her pale brow, made from wood and silver, decorated with bright red berries and metal that had been made to look like leaves.

Thorin heard Kíli suck in a breath beside him. So this was the Queen of Mirkwood, then.

‘Greetings, Prince Thorin, Your Highnesses,’ said the King, stepping forwards and off of the dais. Thorin squared his shoulders and gritted his teeth. Thranduil’s pale blue eyes flickered over the forms of Thorin, Kíli and Fíli, and then their daemons. As ever, Thorin couldn’t hope to read his expression.

‘King Thranduil,’ Thorin said in as even a tone as he could manage.

‘We did not know you had changed your plans,’ said the Queen in a light, musical voice, coming to join her husband, but stepping forwards a few more paces.

‘A raven bearing a message may have been helpful,’ Thranduil said evenly.

‘But you are welcome here, as you always are,’ said the Queen, a shadow of a smile playing about her lips.

‘A note for the future,’ said Thranduil in that same smooth tone. A beat of silence passed. He appeared to be waiting for a response from Thorin. When none came he continued, ‘my Captain has informed me that you have brought with you some…rather unusual company.’

‘Yes,’ said Fíli, finding his voice, ‘they’re hunting dogs.’

‘You seem much attached to them,’ said the Queen with a note of curiosity.

‘It’s…it’s the bonding process,’ said Kíli, and Thorin could almost hear him making it up as he went along, ‘they have to stay close so they can…form a bond.’

‘I see,’ Thranduil said, and there was a world of hidden meaning in just those two words. Thorin began to tense, wondering if this ruse were truly possible, or if they should have never bothered trying to deceive the ever-suspicious Elvenking.

‘Perhaps you will find use for them,’ said the Queen, ‘I am sure my son will invite you all hunting as soon as he is able. But for now, I am certain you are hungry after your travels.’ She looked up, behind Thorin, nodding to one of the waiting attendants. ‘I believe the evening meal is ready. I hope you are hungry,’ she added with a look to her husband, ‘we have quite a feast on offer for you.’

‘Dwarves are always hungry,’ said Thranduil, ‘you need not ask the question at all.’

‘And Elves are always ready to drink themselves drunk at a moment’s notice, in my experience,’ said Thorin before he could restrain himself. The Queen’s smile widened, becoming a full-blown grin.

Thranduil, to Thorin’s astonishment, merely raised one brow at this remark and said, ‘indeed. I am sure we will both find ourselves satisfied by this feast, then.’

 

 

Thranduil and his Queen had put on a feast as fine as any Thorin could remember in Erebor, in the days before the dragon came. The Rivendell Elves might have been satisfied by greenery and vegetables, but Thranduil’s people were evidently not. Rich smoked meats and glorious roasts were brought out in an endless stream from the kitchens, filling up the long feasting tables and accompanied by heady, full-bodied red wine. The great hall was full of Elves of both genders, and every seat available was taken. Thorin could only assume that these were Thranduil’s Lords and Ladies, and that there were members of his Guard here, too. He wondered, morbidly, how many Elves in the room had survived the Battle of the Five Armies in his world.

Thorin, Fíli and Kíli were sat at the high table, in places of honour beside the Queen, the King and Prince Legolas. Tauriel, as Captain of the Guards, was seated to Kíli’s left, and engaged him in conversation as soon as they sat down. Their daemons, meanwhile, sat as close to their chairs as possible, wary of being accidentally trodden on by the large numbers of waiters and attendants who were serving food and wine most generously.

While Thranduil and his Queen were distracted by Legolas, Fíli bent his head to Thorin and whispered, ‘so that’s Thranduil’s wife, then.’

‘It would appear so.’

‘What happened to her in our world?’

But Thorin shook his head sharply. Now was not the time for speculation, not when they were sat so close to Thranduil.

Over the first course, Prince Legolas tried to draw Thorin into a conversation about a book he had found in Mirkwood’s library. Thorin listened with half an ear, watching Thranduil and the Queen intently, and giving small murmurs of assent when he thought the conversation called for it. Legolas, sensing his conversational partner was not exactly paying attention, let the subject drop, much to Thorin’s relief, and Thorin found he could devote his time to wary observation instead. Fíli held some of his attention – unlike his brother, who was digging into his food with a gusto, Fíli only glanced at the trays of meats and breads and sauces in front of him. Thorin himself was only picking at his food half-heartedly, as no matter hungry he was, partaking of food in the heart of Thranduil’s kingdom left a bitter taste in the mouth. Unease and worry flared in his chest, and he vowed to keep a close eye on Fíli over the next few days.

The rest of Thorin’s attention was centred on Thranduil and his Queen. Thranduil was looking – dare he say it – _relaxed_ , his features as carefully blank as ever, and yet there was a lightness to his bearing, and once or twice Thorin caught the barest suggestion of a smile when his son was drawn into their conversation.

At the other end of the table, Kíli sat stiffly in his chair, straight-backed and unsure as to how to act in the face of Tauriel’s friendly smiles.

‘Would you like to go hunting with us tomorrow, Kíli?’ asked Tauriel at one point, leaning forwards slightly to catch Fíli’s eye. ‘You too, Fíli.’

‘And…would we be hunting…deer?’ hedged Kíli.

Tauriel frowned slightly. ‘Yes. What else would we be hunting?’

Kíli shrugged. ‘Spiders.’

Legolas’ eyebrows rose and Tauriel let out a snort. ‘Spiders? Where on earth did you get _that_ idea?’

‘Is this another archery-related challenge?’ said Legolas, ‘are we to hunt spiders now to prove our prowess? They are small targets, after all.’

‘But remember how your last challenge turned out, Kíli,’ warned Tauriel with humour. ‘We don’t want a repeat of that, do we?’

Fíli and Kíli looked at each other, confused and utterly lost. Kíli let out a small, strained chuckle. ‘No, we don’t. Just a…just a joke. Ha ha.’

‘Would you like to join us, then?’

Fíli turned his head just enough to see Thorin’s nod of confirmation. A glance towards Kíli let his brother know they had Thorin’s blessing, and then to Legolas he said, ‘we would be honoured.’

 

 

By the time the sweets arrived, Thorin was all but ready to flee the hall, etiquette be damned. Khael shifted at his feet, echoing his restlessness. He had, for the most part, been left alone by Thranduil and Legolas, but just as he was making a show of eating this last course, the Queen turned to him.

‘I do hope the reason for your visit is not urgent,’ she said, ‘I know it is not appropriate to speak of such things while we are eating, but I must know – have you arrived early because there have been any…developments in Óin’s work?’

She might have been talking nonsense, for all Thorin knew. But the concern on her face and in her gestures was genuine, and Thorin caught on enough to know that he should answer in the negative.

‘No, there has not,’ Thorin said, and saw her relax marginally. ‘We simply wanted…a break from court life,’ he added, the words sounding forced, even to his own ears.

The Queen inclined her head gracefully. ‘I understand. I am surprised Princess Dis did not decide to join you.’

‘She was otherwise engaged,’ said Thorin stiffly.

‘A pity,’ said the Queen. ‘Ah, good!’ she said, turning away suddenly to look to the far end of the fall, where a male elf was stood, flanked by musicians. ‘Aeglos has a song for us this evening.’

As if the evening couldn’t get any worse, thought Thorin, as the hall fell silent and the elf began to sing. The elf had a good voice, Thorin could begrudgingly admit, but his song was oddly mournful, full of highs and lows and longing, at odds with the otherwise merry gathering.

He wasn’t the only one who thought so. When the elf’s song drew to a close, a ripple of polite applause ran through the crowd, and Thranduil said, in a voice as dry as dust,

‘Thank you, Aeglos. But I would like something a little more mournful, next time. That was far too cheering.’

The Queen had to take a sip of wine to cover up her smile. The singer, Aeglos, gave a little ‘harumph’ of indignation.

‘Just lovely,’ said the Queen, ‘thank you.’

And with that, at long last, their ordeal was at an end, and they could retire to their own private rooms, away from Elves and their double meanings. Thorin had never been so grateful to rise from his seat. But before Thorin could take his leave of the hall, Thranduil made sure to catch him for one last word.

‘We have much to discuss,’ said Thranduil. ‘Tomorrow, after the noon meal?’

Thorin gave a small nod. He sorely hoped that they would have moved on to another world – any world – by then.


	6. Chapter 5

They were each so drained that, by the time they reached their living quarters, it was all they could do to stumble towards their respective beds. But Kíli had one last thought on his mind, and paused, one hand on the door to his room.

‘I wonder what they’re like,’ he said, blinking blearily and swaying a little on his feet.

‘Who?’ said Thorin.

‘The other versions of us,’ said Kíli, shaking some of his tiredness off as he said this. ‘The ones that exist here. I wonder how different they are from us.’

‘Not very different, I should imagine,’ said Fíli. ‘For example, I am willing to bet my share of Erebor’s gold that the Kíli of this world still has hair that looks like a warg’s licked it.’

‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Thorin, ‘it’s the one constant we can cling to.’

Nârù let out a bark of indignation at this. Kíli grinned widely, not offended in the slightest. 

‘Not all of us have to resort to moustache braids to impress the ladies, brother,’ he said, and then raised his hand in farewell and ushered a grumbling Nârù into his room.

Fíli mumbled out a quick ‘goodnight’ before he and Lukhudith disappeared into his bedroom, leaving Thorin alone in the corridor to ponder over Kíli’s words. He could not help but wonder what the true occupant of his own room – and the rightful owner of the clothes he now wore - was like. Perhaps a closer inspection of his possessions would reveal a few clues.

With this in mind, he and Khael shook off the need to sleep in lieu of searching through drawers and rifling through the small collection of books on the bookshelf near the bed. The drawers held nothing in them of any interest, aside from the fact that his personal grooming tastes changed little from world to world. The desk, meanwhile, yielded stacks upon stacks of paper, all written upon in his own messy hand, and all written in Common, not in Khuzdul as court reports usually were. Perhaps he could infer from this that Ereborean Dwarves were still as secretive as ever, which was a comforting thought. The content of the papers themselves were of only passing interest - a brief glance over the first few pages revealed that they were all regarding annual iron yields from the mines of the Iron Hills. The desk’s ink wells, he noted, were almost dry, and the few pens he found in the top drawer were blunt with use.

The books were all in Sindarin, and Thorin picked through them gingerly, surprised at himself. They were clearly all much-used – so well-thumbed that they were practically falling apart. Thorin flicked through one particularly large tome and found it was a history book on the First Age. His eye was caught by the mention of Dwarves in one passage, and he read a section, his eyebrows rising with every line. The author had devoted a whole section to the praise of the Dwarves of Nogrod. Thorin looked down to Khael, and saw his confusion mirrored in her tilt of the head.

He made to close the book, mind set on going to sleep and put all speculation and attempt at rationalising this world from his mind. But just before the book snapped shut, a piece of parchment fluttered from the back pages. 

With a frown Thorin picked it up as gently as he could, and found that he held between his hands an elaborate, beautifully-penned poem.

 _The road goes ever ever on,_ read the first line. 

Thorin glanced down the rest of the poem. There was that same tug at his heart again, inexplicable and unexplainable, and that was the final straw. Thorin carefully put the poem back in its place.

‘I’ve had enough of mysteries for one night,’ he told Khael, shaking his head a little. 

The bed was soft and welcoming, and Khael, to his great surprise, settled beside him, curling up into herself. She was so close that Thorin could have easily reached out to touch the thick fur of her collar, but his hand remained clenched on the bed beside him.

Sleep, thankfully, held no more questions for him.

 

 

Thorin was roused at some ungodly hour by a great shout that echoed through the living quarters. A set of jaws closed around his arm, nipping at the exposed skin, bringing him to full wakefulness in an instant. His hand brushed Khael’s head and she growled and shoved at him; through the lingering haze of sleep Thorin registered the shouting. His hand immediately went for a weapon, but Khael was already off of the bed and by the door, snarling at him to hurry up.

Thorin seized Orcrist and rushed out onto the corridor, and all but ran into a messy-haired Kíli. Nârù was scratching at Fíli’s door, growling and whining in turn, and Thorin threw it open, his heart hammering in his throat.

With sharp Dwarven eyes he could make out the form of Fíli, thrashing on the bed, caught in the grips of a violent nightmare. Lukhudith, in great distress, was trying to wake him, scratching at his chest with her paws. Thorin and Kíli were at his side in a moment, Orcrist thrown hurriedly to one side, where it clattered onto the desk.

‘Fíli, wake up!’ Thorin shouted, grasping at the arm as it was flung out, trying to keep Fíli from hurting himself, and he had to use all of his strength to hold the arm in place, so strong was Fíli’s resistance. The moonlight filtering through the curtains showed the sweat running down Fíli’s brow, and the expression of absolute agony distorting his features.

Kíli grasped Fíli’s arm on his other side, Lukhudith scooting back to give him room, though she did not go far. Kíli began to call out his brother’s name in equal parts distress and fear.

‘Wake up,’ Thorin cried, forcing his voice to be soft even as Kíli shouted, ‘wake up, it’s just a dream. It’s just a dream, Fíli. _Wake up_.’

'Fíli, _please_ ,' begged Kíli, 'it's alright, you're dreaming!'

And with a final convulsion, Fíli’s nightmare released its grip on his body and mind. His limbs went slack, the tension holding his body tight releasing, but the distress that had twisted his features remained, his jaw held tightly shut. Lukhudith whimpered, and Khael pushed her nose into her fur.

Fíli’s eyes slid open. Thorin let his wrist go and, with infinite gentleness, brushed back the hair from Fíli’s brow.

‘Uncle,’ rasped Fíli, and Thorin saw his eyes flicker to Thorin’s neck and grimace, his face ashen.

‘It’s alright, Fíli,’ said Kíli, and Fíli’s eyes snapped to him, ‘it was just a dream. It wasn’t real.’

Fíli’s hand came up to touch Kíli’s shoulder, and he seemed to sag when he grasped it. His eyes flickered down, to Lukhudith. ‘Wasn’t it?’ he said quietly.

‘Fíli?’ said Thorin quietly, ‘what were you dreaming of?’

Thorin saw him swallow, saw a shadow pass over his face, and for a moment he thought Fíli might not answer at all.

‘The tunnels,’ said Fíli, ‘I was dreaming of what happened…in the tunnels.’

‘What did you see?’

‘You don’t have to-‘ said Kíli.

‘I saw you,’ said Fíli, pressing on with visible determination, as though he was all but forcing the words out. ‘I saw both of you…die.’

Thorin’s heart fell to the pits of his stomach.

‘But we’re not dead,’ said Kíli with a hollow laugh, ‘we’re here, see?’ He clasped his hand to Fíli's shoulder as if to prove the point.

Fíli shook his head, and the words all but spilled from his mouth. 

‘No. I saw you die,' he said vehemently. 'I saw you _killed_. Over and over. I was always…I was always too late. I could never get to you in time. I could never see your attackers. And you…you just kept on turning up – new versions of you, and I was so relieved that at first I hardly questioned it, but you just kept _dying_ and every single time I saw Khael vanish in a cloud of golden smoke, and-and Nârù-‘

‘Hush. It’s alright,’ Thorin said again, pressing a hand to Fíli’s brow as he would have done when he was a small Dwarfling. ‘It wasn’t real.’

‘I began to question what was real and what wasn’t, after that,’ said Fíli. Fine shivers were wracking his body, echoing Lukhudtih’s own trembling. His daemon buried closer into his side. ‘I began to…to…’

He trailed off, and Thorin hoped he would never have to hear the end of that sentence.

‘We’re not going anywhere, Fíli,’ said Kíli. ‘We’re here, and we’re safe and we’re alive.’

Fíli gave a little shake of his head. His sweat-soaked hair clung to his neck and cheeks. ‘Yes. But you…you could’ve died, back then,’ he said drowsily. His eyes had begun to droop shut. The nightmare must have taken a terrible toll on both body and mind.

‘But we _didn’t_ ,’ said Thorin. ‘Go back to sleep, Fíli. We’ll stay with you.’

Fíli’s brow furrowed. ‘You could have died, in the battle. I couldn’t save you. I couldn't...’

‘You didn’t need to,’ said Kíli. ‘Now _rest_ , you idiot.’

Fíli blinked blearily, his gaze drifting down to look at Thorin’s throat once more. The nightmare had sapped his strength and energy, and sleep was gently taking a hold of him, Lukhudith settling in at his side.

'We're here, Fíli. We're safe. You protected us.'

Thorin and Kíli sat back, giving him space. Kíli couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of his brother, and he did not move far, sitting on the edge of the bed, his face as pale as Fíli's as though he were feeling his brother's pain. Nârù lay down beside Lukhudith, her ears down, head low. Letting out a breath, Thorin readied himself for a long night of watching over his nephew. He sat down on the desk’s chair heavily, passing a hand through his hair.

Too young, he thought. Far too young to be having such nightmares.

 

 

Weak sunlight woke Thorin the next morning. He shifted in place, back aching from a night of sleeping in a chair. A blanket fell off of his chest as he did so, and he wondered which of the boys had put it over him. The bed was empty and neatly made, and there was no sign of either of them.

‘Why didn’t you wake me?’ Thorin asked of Khael.

Khael made a noise in the back of her throat, and Thorin let out a huff.

The living space offered up a clue as to where Fíli and Kíli had gone before worry could begin to settle in. A note sat on the table. It read,

_Dear Uncle. We have gone to hunt in the forest with ~~the bastard~~ ~~the tree-shagger~~ the Prince and the Captain. Fíli says not to worry and that fresh air is just what he needs. (If you ask me, he’s still looking a little pale, but-_

A fight had clearly broken out between the two of them at this point, for the paper was crinkled and splattered with ink. The next line few lines were in a different hand.

 _Uncle,_ it said, _try not to worry, although I know that is your natural state. We need to keep up the appearance of friendship with the Elves, and I daresay that I could do with some exercise that doesn’t involve running around tunnels after apparitions of you and Kíli._ Thorin winced at this; Fíli’s humour never used to be this black. _Please try not to cause any diplomatic incidents before we come back. You know Kíli would be very disappointed to miss something like that._

‘You should have woken me,’ said Thorin to Khael. ‘I’ve half a mind to go after them.’

Khael let out a low sound, as if to say, _what good would that do?_ and Thorin snorted his displeasure. Fíli would be fine, he knew – Kíli was watching his back and there had been no indication that their hosts wanted to harm them. Still, Thorin worried, and sitting around in the guest rooms was hardly going to help soothe his fears – perhaps a walk around Thranduil’s halls might pass the time.

In short order, he had washed and dressed and eaten, and within an hour Thorin found himself wandering the winding pathways of Thranduil’s Kingdom. Khael, at his side, paused every so often to look around and peer suspiciously at the Elves they passed. They were acknowledged by one or two guards as they walked – short, respectful nods sent in his direction – and each one made Thorin tense, as though he had been caught out of his cell and was about to be hauled back there.

As Thorin rounded a particularly tight corner, he all but ran into someone else, his quick reflexes saving him from stumbling. The person he had run into, however, was not so lucky, and let out a yelp, hopping back three steps and attempting to hold on to the stack of books in their arms.

Thorin reached out a hand to steady them instinctively, and once more found himself staring into a pair of very familiar blue eyes.

‘ _Bilbo_?’ he said.

Bilbo gaped at him outright, unable to speak for a long moment. ‘Prince Thorin!’ he said at last, looking as shocked as Thorin felt. He sketched out a low bow. ‘Your Highness, I’m sorry, I almost ran-‘

‘The fault was all mine,’ said Thorin, staring at the hobbit, taking in the sight of him hale and healthy, clothed in a soft jacket, cream shirt and trousers that were dusty about the knee.

‘Uhm, no, not at all, I…’ he trailed off. His eyes widened almost comically as he glanced down at the huge, hulking form of Khael.

‘My…hunting dog,’ said Thorin with great reluctance. ‘Don’t worry, she won’t harm you.’

Khael looked up at him, and then purposefully at Bilbo, taking a long drag of the air through her nose. Thorin caught her meaning instantly: this was not the Bilbo of their world. What little hope had flared up in Thorin’s heart at the sight of Bilbo guttered and died.

‘I didn’t think that she would,’ assured Bilbo, ‘I was just a little surprised.’

‘Not as much as I am to see you here,’ Thorin said.

He knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say. Bilbo’s face was, as it had been at the start of their Journey, an open book, with every thought and feeling plainly expressed for all to see.

‘Why…why would you-‘ and strangely, something like pain tightened Bilbo’s jaw for a moment. He breathed in sharply, and said, ‘Your Highness, I’ve been here for months.’

‘Here? In Thranduil’s halls?’ said Thorin before he could stop himself.

‘Well. _Yes_ ,’ said Bilbo helplessly, completely at a loss with the direction their conversation had taken.

Thorin’s mind reeled from this; Bilbo the wanderer, the camp guard, was easier to believe than Bilbo staying for any length of time in their enemy’s halls. With great effort, he got a hold of himself – this other version of Thorin and Bilbo must have met before, and he would act accordingly, though he had no point of reference at all for the nature of their friendship.

‘A momentary lapse,’ said Thorin, ‘it’s been a tiring journey.’ He attempted to smile to put Bilbo at ease. If anything, Bilbo looked even more alarmed. 

A long, awkward moment of silence passed, Bilbo’s cheeks growing redder and redder with every second that ticked by. Khael looked between them with her ears pricked, and her expression seemed to Thorin to say _well, get on with it, then._ Thorin took the hint.

‘I would ask a favour of you, Mister Baggins. I found myself at a loose end this morning. Would you keep me company until my errant nephews return?’

Bilbo’s eyebrows rose sharply and his eyes widened. ‘Me?’ he said, ‘forgive me, Your Highness, but I don’t think-‘

‘Are you busy?’ asked Thorin, looking to the books in Bilbo’s arms.

‘No, no! Not at all. But…are you sure you’d like _my_ company?’

‘I am certain of it.’ His mind was racing with possibilities. He had to know why Bilbo was here, so far from the Shire without a cause. Their meeting _must_ be the reason why they had been deposited in this topsy-turvy world.

‘Well…’ said Bilbo with a heavy dose of hesitance, ‘if you’re certain, then yes. It would be an honour, Your Highness.’

Thorin winced at the title. ‘Thorin is fine,’ he said, turning to head back to their living quarters, Bilbo falling into step beside him.

‘I couldn’t possibly,’ muttered Bilbo.

‘You were not at the feast last night,’ Thorin observed, ‘are you well?’

‘Yes, I’m quite well, thank you,’ said Bilbo, ‘I just got lost in my work. Oh, it’s this way,’ he added as Thorin tried to take a left, ‘if you’re heading towards the guest quarters, that is?’

‘I am. You may have to guide me. All of these corridors and pathways look the same to me.’

Again, out of the corner of his eye, Thorin caught Bilbo giving him an odd look.

‘You get used to them,’ said Bilbo a little absently.

‘So, you were so lost in your work you forgot to eat? That doesn’t sound very hobbit-like.’

‘No,’ said Bilbo, ‘no, I suppose it’s not, really. But I took food down into the archives with me, you see, so I didn’t miss dinner at all. I always take some, just in case I get caught up in what I’m doing. The head librarian knows me well enough now that she leaves me some out, too.’ He took a breath, closing his mouth with a click, cutting off what had started to become a ramble.

‘Ah, that sounds more like it.’

‘I hope you don’t think it was an insult,’ said Bilbo, sounding so worried that Thorin glanced his way. ‘My absence, at dinner,’ the hobbit explained, ‘I didn’t know you’d arrived. If I had, then I would-‘

‘It’s no trouble, Mister Baggins,’ said Thorin, privately reflecting that the use of Bilbo’s full title felt odd to shape in his mouth. ‘I assure you.’

‘Oh, well. That’s…good.’

They had, with Bilbo’s help, reached the guest quarters. Their Elven attendant had been by to refresh the platter of food on the table and the flagons of juice, water and wine. Thorin, without a thought, began to fill two cups full of apple juice, knowing that Bilbo was partial to it. Bilbo hovered by the door, unsure of his welcome, not taking more than a few steps into the space and looking around the room with wide eyes.

‘Sit, if you like,’ said Thorin, passing him the cup. Bilbo took it, looking down at the juice and then back up at Thorin. He remained standing. Thorin gestured to the nearest chair and Bilbo hurried to sit down.

‘What work were you doing?’ said Thorin. It was clear that, if he wanted this conversation to progress, he would have to do most of the talking. Bilbo was looking at him like a deer that had been caught out in the open, and it was making Thorin distinctly uncomfortable. Before the battle, before all that had occurred in Erebor’s halls, Bilbo had always looked at him with a mixture of exasperation and impatience, and conversation between them had flowed easily and frequently.

‘Hm?’

‘Down in the archives. What work were you doing?’

‘Oh!’ said Bilbo, ‘I’m just helping out restore and archive some things for the Elvenking’s library. But I’m not sure how much use I am. Most of the time I get far too interested in what I’m reading and lose a few hours in some old dusty tome,’ he said with a chuckle.

‘I’m sure you’re of great use,’ said Thorin.

‘Er, well. Thank you, Your Majesty. I hope I am, at least. The head librarian thinks my penmanship is good enough to even re-write some passages that have faded.’

Thorin gave a nod, satisfied by this. ‘I wasn’t even aware that Mirkwood _had_ a library,’ he said without thinking.

‘Mirkwood?’ frowned Bilbo, ‘where’s Mirkwood?’

Khael growled and Thorin’s mind scrambled to cover up his slip. ‘Here, I mean. I wasn’t aware the Elvenking had a library.’

‘Greenwood, you mean? Here?’

‘Yes. That’s what I meant.’

‘Well…of course it does,’ said Bilbo slowly, looking greatly unsure, ‘it’s the fourth biggest on Middle Earth, which is no mean feat if you consider that it falls behind Erebor, Gondor and Rivendell’s libraries.’

A small, smug part of Thorin was greatly satisfied to hear that Erebor’s libraries easily bested all others.

‘I suppose I was trying to make a joke,’ said Thorin, fumbling for an excuse, ‘it’s so small in comparison to Erebor’s library that you would hardly know it was there at all.’

Khael gave him a despairing look. Thorin didn’t need to glance her way to know that that hadn’t been the best thing to say – Bilbo’s face had fallen at this snide remark, and Thorin felt all of two inches tall.

‘It’s true it’s not as big as Erebor’s,’ he said, ‘but it _does_ still contain some very important works. And considering how some of the books came to be here, that makes it all the more worthy, in my opinion, and I’m…I’m honoured to try and help out in any way I can.’

‘Bilbo,’ started Thorin, intent on apologising around the foot in his mouth, but a knock on the door made him pause. With a sigh he bid the Elven attendant enter.

‘I apologise for interrupting,’ said the attendant, ‘but the King would like to see you now.’

Thorin sorely wished that he could tell the attendant exactly where Thranduil could shove his meeting. ‘I am sorry,’ he said to Bilbo instead, though he had no idea what he was apologising for.

‘Not at all, not at all,’ said Bilbo, hands twisting in his lap.

‘If you are amenable, I would like to continue our conversation after my meeting,’ said Thorin, and privately he was sneering at himself for using the term ‘conversation’. Their meeting could hardly be termed as such – Thorin had made Bilbo distinctly uncomfortable and then insulted his work. But he would like the chance to make things right, if he could.

‘I would be honoured,’ said Bilbo, giving Thorin a tight smile.

Thorin almost laughed at that.

 

 

After he had summoned Thorin from his quarters, Thranduil had the nerve to keep him waiting. Thorin found that he didn’t much care – he was too tired to dredge up more than a passing irritation, and he was hopeful that the delay meant that their meeting might be shortened.

He had been asked to wait in a grand reception room. The high walls had been lavishly painted with highly-stylised pictures that appeared to tell a story, starting with the group of obviously Elven figures on the western wall. There was, if Thorin’s sharp eyes were to be believed, marble and golden inlay running through the pictures, and accents of precious metals and gems – all executed with such a level of skill that Thorin had to marvel at it.

‘I had not thought you an admirer of art, Your Highness,’ said someone from behind.

‘Any work of art is appreciated by Dwarves,’ said Thorin, glancing around at the Queen, ‘even if it is made by Elves,’ he added in an undertone.

The Queen must have heard him, though, for she chuckled and said, ‘it’s not truly Elven, though, is it?’

‘What do you mean?’ said Thorin.

She looked at him with a touch of confusion, and Thorin wondered what, exactly, he could talk about without tripping up. Khael blew out a breath through her nose in exasperation.

‘Why, Your Highness, you must be jesting. Your own guilds of painters, engravers and inlayers consulted on the work, though it was well before your time.’

‘I’m more interested in the story than the art, truth be told,’ said Thorin quickly. ‘What tale is this?’

She let out a laugh. ‘Surely you know of it?’

‘I do,’ said Thorin easily, ‘but pretend I am an ignorant Dwarf for a moment - it shouldn’t be hard. I would like to hear the tale from someone who knows far more about it than I.’

He reflected internally that it was far easier to talk to the Queen than it was to even look at Thranduil. He realised, now that he thought about it, that it was because he had no quarrel with her – she had either not been alive or not present on Middle Earth when Thranduil had betrayed his allies. Thorin could not hold her accountable for the suffering of his people, no matter how much his stubborn heart wanted him to.

‘I can oblige you,’ said the Queen, ‘though I must say, it is a struggle to see you as ignorant. The painting you see here is the Mercy of the Valar - a tumultuous time in our history.’ She pointed to the group of seven Elves stood before an exceptionally tall Elf with fire-red hair. ‘When the Valar stepped in to silence an oath that, we are told, would lead to terrible things. This…intervention by the Valar was never quite explained, and I am unsure if it saved us any sorrow at all. The Ages that followed were full of bloodshed regardless.’

She waved a hand elegantly to the rest of the wall, which showed the hardships and toil of Elves and – Thorin almost startled to see it, but their forms were unmistakable - _Dwarves_.

‘Though we were not alone. The Dwarves stood with us through the long years of suffering. They were unwearied by toil and burdened tragedy, but still they fought, and they died alongside us. When the protections of Melian were broken and many thought that they had deserted their allies and broken their oaths, they marched to King Thingol’s aid - for what little good it did. Elves and Dwarves died in their droves that day. All were slaughtered.’

Her voice faded, all colour gone from her cheeks. This was not the Middle Earth history that Thorin knew.

‘I am sorry, Your Majesty,’ said Thorin, ‘to remind you of such things.’ For surely she had been there – Thorin knew that look. He knew that look far too well. It was the same look that every Dwarf of Erebor wore when the destruction of their home was mentioned.

She blinked, coming out of her reverie. ‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘I did not mean to linger over such a sad period of our history!’ She smiled at him and turned to the other wall. ‘Not all of what is depicted is full of tragedy. We had our victories, our triumphs and, eventually, our happiness – hard-won though it was.’

‘Though I have to say, what we are to speak of next is hardly any better than what I have recounted,’ she added, pursing her lips. ‘Come, let us go in – my husband is surely finished with his business now.’

Thranduil was not, as it turned out, finished with his business, and was still deep in conversation with two Elves when the door was opened. He broke away to look at them with an irritable glance, and he and his wife had a quick, silent conversation that seemed to mostly consist of conversing through their eyebrows. Thorin tried not to laugh at the absurdity of it.

The Queen’s glare settled the matter – the two Elven Guards were sent away, and Thranduil bid Thorin welcome.

‘I hope I have not kept you waiting long,’ he said, and Thorin caught an edge of sarcasm in his voice, ‘I do know how punctuation matters to Dwarves.’

‘That was _three years_ ago,’ said the Queen softly, but not so softly that Thorin didn’t catch it. She took a seat at the long wooden table set up in the middle of the room, and Thorin followed suit. He noted with weary surprise that a chair with the correct Dwarven proportions had been put out for him. Khael lay down under the table, away from the curious eyes of the Elvenking.

‘And I know how keen Elves are about getting straight to the point,’ retorted Thorin just as sarcastically. ‘So shall we begin?’

 

 

What followed was possibly the most confusing conversation that Thorin had ever had with an Elf. Whatever Thranduil had invited him to discuss was of great importance – snide remarks were put to one side in favour of tackling the problem at hand. They discussed an influx of refugees from Rohan and possible food shortages, and at one stage Thranduil referred to an ‘acquaintance of both of ours that is no doubt picking pockets even as we speak in Gondor’.

Thorin fielded the questions and negotiations as best he could. Thranduil and his Queen were both clearly worried about the arrival of droves of Men – for whatever reason – fleeing their cities and coming to Esgaroth and Dale. Thorin attempted to keep his answers vague, not going into specifics, suggesting the few ideas that came to mind. He was an hour into the discussion when he finally, _finally_ received some hint as to what the problem was.

‘We have news,’ said the Queen, ‘from my…observers, in Rohan. There is talk of an usurper. They think that he might be making the sickness worse, on purpose – infecting the food supplies, what little wine the people can afford. We think that he might be purposely spreading the disease in order to make the people angry with their King’s inability to tackle it properly. Angry enough to want someone new in charge.’

‘This is ill news,’ said Thorin, ‘but I do not understand how it affects us.’

‘You are terribly short-sighted today, my friend,’ said Thranduil, leaning forwards in his chair, staring Thorin down imperiously. ‘Are you still tired from your journey? It affects us because the resulting chaos _will_ mean more refugees moving North. More hungry mouths to feed. More chances for this disease to spread to _our_ lands.’

It was absurd, thought Thorin, that the very Elf that had espoused isolationism, had refused to see beyond his own kingdom, was now lecturing Thorin on the far-reaching effects of an usurper in a far-off country. 

‘Forgive me,’ ground out Thorin though gritted teeth, ‘I am still weary from travelling.’

‘Perhaps we should leave it there, for now,’ said the Queen, ‘and return to this subject later.’

Thorin almost sagged in relief – he didn’t think he could pretend to be Thranduil’s ally a moment longer, and the constant barrage of questions and arrangements over a subject he knew almost nothing about was giving him a headache.

‘A good idea,’ said Thorin, ‘I will need to speak to my King about this before we can proceed further.’

Thranduil looked like he might say more, but his Queen – who Thorin was beginning to begrudgingly like – gently lay her hand on Thranduil’s arm.

‘Yes. Let us speak more on the matter later,’ said the Elvenking.

 

 

Thorin had thought he would be given some time to himself after his strenuous meeting, but when he arrived back in the guest quarters, he found Bilbo perched on the edge of one of the room’s heavy lounge chairs. At the sight of Thorin and Khael, he leapt to his feet.

‘Your Majesty!’ he said, ‘I’m sorry if this is presumptuous of me – I arrived early and the attendant let me in, and I didn’t know what to say-‘

‘It’s fine, Mister Baggins,’ said Thorin, sitting down heavily in a chair opposite Bilbo.

‘Oh,’ said Bilbo, ‘if you’re sure-‘

‘I am sure. You are welcome here.’

‘Did the meeting go well?’

‘In a sense,’ said Thorin, ‘there was very little bloodshed, so I count that as a victory.’

Bilbo spluttered out a laugh, and Thorin allowed himself to smile slightly. The hobbit's eyes immediately dropped to the floor, where he caught sight of Khael curled up on the rug. 

‘She really does follow you around everywhere, doesn’t she?’

‘She does. I can’t get rid of her,’ said Thorin, looking side-long at Khael.

‘She looks like a fine companion,’ Bilbo said, unsure of Thorin’s tone.

‘She has her uses.’

Khael turned her back to him with a growl.

‘If I didn’t know any better,’ said Bilbo with a smile, ‘I would think she can understand us.’

‘Imagine that,’ muttered Thorin. ‘Mister Baggins,’ he said, and Bilbo straightened in his seat, ‘I shall get straight to it: I apologise for my words earlier. I did not mean to demean your work.’

Bilbo held up both of his hands. ‘No, no, not at all - don’t worry about it in the slightest! It’s all water under the bridge, and so on. Goodness, royalty apologising to _me_.’ He chuckled. ‘My friends back in the Shire would hardly believe me if I told them.’

‘Even royalty should apologise every once in a while,’ said Thorin, ‘even if there’s no reason for the apology. Just to remind them that they’re not infallible.’

Bilbo let out a soft laugh. He had no idea that his own words were being parroted back to him, almost word-for-word. The Bilbo of Thorin’s world had said the exact same thing to him in Laketown. Thorin could remember the way the watery sunlight had lit up Bilbo’s wry smile as he had told Thorin this little piece of wisdom.

‘Why the Greenwood, Mister Baggins? Why here? Of all the places for you to end up, I could not imagine a hobbit in the halls of Thranduil.’

‘Why not?’ said Bilbo mildly, ‘it suits me fine, and they’ve been very kind to me, here.’

‘But would you not want to…go beyond this place?’ Thorin pressed. ‘Have you ever visited Erebor?’

‘Erebor?’ gaped Bilbo.

‘Yes. You are not so far away, and-‘

‘Erebor shut its gates to outsiders a year ago,’ Bilbo said, daring to interrupt him. ‘You have to have special permission from the _King_ to enter, and that has not been granted in all that time, not even to the Men of Esgaroth.’

They stared at each other, and Thorin had a distinct feeling that he had crossed a line.

‘You’re…’ Bilbo started, clenching his hands tight.

Thorin waited for the rest of the sentence. When nothing more issued from Bilbo’s mouth, he said with a hint of impatience, ‘whatever it is you want to say, say it. You may speak freely here, Bilbo.’

‘You may regret that decision in a moment,’ said Bilbo with a nervous laugh. He appeared to be working up his courage to say something. He licked his lips, and straightened his shoulders, closed his eyes for a brief moment.

‘This is probably treasonous in a hundred different ways and you might think I’m mad, but.’ Thorin saw him take a breath. ‘You’re not Prince Thorin, are you?’

Khael startled to her feet so suddenly Bilbo flinched back. Thorin could do nothing but stare, jaw slack.

‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ said Bilbo nervously.

‘You are,’ rasped Thorin. ‘ _How_ did you know?’

Bilbo’s eyes crinkled at the edges as he smiled. ‘Prince Thorin doesn’t know my name,’ he said. ‘That was my first clue, at least.’

Thorin sucked in a breath, and Khael made a low sound at the back of her throat.

‘I’m certain he does,’ said Thorin after a pause, ‘do we truly not know each other at all?

‘This is the longest conversation we’ve ever had,’ said Bilbo. ‘You’ve been introduced to me on several occasions. You can never remember my name.’

Thorin shook his head, sitting back in his chair. ‘And what else gave me away?’

‘A few other things. But the fact that you invited me to Erebor was the biggest clue of all. Ha, mostly I’m very glad that I’m right! Could you have imagined the consequences if I’d gotten it wrong?’ He let out a nervous chuckle. ‘I would have to claim I was drunk, or something.’

Thorin reflected that, had the Bilbo from his world been in the same situation, he would not have confronted Thorin alone and unarmed. The Bilbo Thorin knew had learnt caution - and suspicion - on the journey, and would have known better than to challenge a potential enemy without a plan. But _this_ Bilbo knew nothing of the potential danger he had put himself in. Even now there was nothing but eager curiosity, held in check by politeness, on the hobbit’s face.

‘Fíli and Kíli would have found it amusing, at least,’ said Thorin. Khael, at last, sat back on her haunches. She had not taken her eyes off of Bilbo from the moment the revelation had slipped from the hobbit’s mouth.

Bilbo peered at him. ‘If you’re not the Prince, then who _are_ you?’

‘I am Thorin, but not the one you know,’ said Thorin heavily. ‘I am what your Thorin would have become, had he…lead a different life.’

‘Another Thorin.’ Wonder lit up Bilbo’s eyes. ‘You look _just_ like him.’

‘I should hope so. We are the same person, after all.’

‘This has all the makings of a fine tale,’ said Bilbo. ‘How did you come to be here?’

Thorin glanced down at Khael, wondering if he should tell the truth or not. His position, he knew, was precarious. If Bilbo spoke the tale to anyone outside this room and they were proved to be imposters, then Thranduil would surely imprison them. All it would take was one messenger bird sent to Erebor to uncover the whole sorry mess.

‘I will tell you my story,’ said Thorin, ‘if you promise not to tell anyone else.’

‘I swear it,’ said Bilbo earnestly. ‘I’m not sure if anyone else would believe me, anyway.’

‘Very well,’ Thorin said, and began his tale, sketching out the details of how they came to be in Mirkwood, and that Thorin had met another version of Bilbo in another world. He did not mention the darker parts of their journey – he would not darken their meeting with talk of their terror in the tunnels, and Fíli’s whispered confession, made in the unquiet hours of the night, would not be spoken of again, if Thorin had his way.

Bilbo was a captive audience, listening raptly, frequently prompting Thorin with questions, keeping the story going with his enthusiasm. When it came to explaining the concept of daemons, Bilbo all but gaped at Khael.

‘Your _soul_?’ he gasped. ‘That’s extraordinary.’

‘It is. But I am grateful for her presence, here in Mirkwood.’

‘There you go again, with that word,’ said Bilbo. ‘What’s Mirkwood?’

‘This place. This forest is called Mirkwood, in my world.’

‘That’s a rather gloomy name for it,’ said Bilbo with a shudder.

‘I’ll be sure to tell Thranduil that, next time I see him,’ said Thorin dryly. ‘It's called as such because it is infested with spiders. A great evil swept over the forest years ago.’

‘Spiders?’

‘Huge, monstrous arachnids. The spawn of Ungoliant, apparently.’

Bilbo shivered and pulled a face.

‘What a terrible thing. I couldn’t imagine that, and I don’t think I want to – the forest is beautiful, here, and so well-guarded.’

‘It would seem that there are many things here that don’t make sense. Including you, Mister Baggins,’ said Thorin. ‘I have not yet had a full answer to my question, so I will have to ask again: why _is_ a Hobbit so very far from home?’

‘I’m Journeying,’ said Bilbo simply. At Thorin’s look of confusion, he frowned. ‘Do Hobbits not have that, where you’re from?’

‘In my world Hobbits are terrified of taking two steps outside of the Shire,’ said Thorin, ‘let alone travel half way across Middle Earth to stay with the Elves of Mirkwood.’

‘Truly?’ said Bilbo.

‘Yes. And they’re…not fond, of outsiders. I attempted to ask for directions in The Shire, once, and I suspect I almost frightened a farmer to death.’ That seemed so long ago, now. The poor hobbit had all but yelped and disappeared into its smial with a speed that Thorin had begrudgingly found impressive at the time.

‘How _strange_ ,’ murmured Bilbo. ‘That’s harder to believe than the Greenwood overrun with giant spiders. Here, in our world, a Hobbit makes a Journey before they settle down. I suppose, in a way, I am unusual in that I came all the way to the Greenwood. Most only go to Rivendell, or to the Blue Mountains. But it’s a long-held tradition a that the Tooks Journey further than anyone. Mostly so they can boast about it when they return,’ he added with a smile.

‘And what is the purpose, of this…Journey?’

‘It depends on the Hobbit. We usually stay for a year, earning our way however we can. The point, for most, is to see a bit of the world and bring it back to the Shire.’

‘But what of the dangers of the road?’ pressed Thorin, because none of this was making sense, ‘surely it’s dangerous to travel alone?’

‘Dangerous? No, not at all! Not if you travel by the Great East Road. It’s guarded by Elves and Men all along the way. They communicate using Dwarven towers and semaphore. It’s quite an extraordinary sight.’

‘But what about trolls, goblins, _orcs_?’ Thorin said, no longer able to hide his incredulity.

‘They’re…they’re stories to tell little children to scare them into being good,’ said Bilbo, his cheeks paling. ‘Aren’t they?’

Thorin sat back, clenching his fist tightly, struggling to keep a hold of his anger. ‘No evil, no dragon, no broken alliances,’ he said, bitterly. ‘I would have liked to have been born into this world, had I a choice.’

‘It’s…it’s not all good,’ said Bilbo, his previous hesitation returned full-force in the face of Thorin’s bitterness. ‘There is a great sickness, spreading from Gondor and Rohan. It has all but crippled the White City.’

Thorin came back to himself a little at this news.

‘There is no rhyme or reason to it,’ continued Bilbo. ‘It claims young and old alike, the healthy and the sick. It has taken so many lives already, and they suspect that it might…it might be spreading North.’

‘Has it spread to Erebor?’

But Bilbo was shaking his head even before he had completed the question. ‘No, it hasn’t yet reached the Lonely Mountain.’

‘Perhaps Dwarves are immune,’ said Thorin hopefully.

And sadness swept over Bilbo so tangible that his body sagged with it. ‘No,’ he said softly, ‘no, we know it’s not. You…I mean, the Prince Thorin from this world…I’m sorry, I hate to have to be the one to say this, but. His little brother, and his father – they both succumbed to the illness three years ago. They were visiting Gondor with their mother – _your_ mother - when the sickness was thought to be nothing more than a winter illness. The Princess was unaffected, but…’

‘Frerin? _And_ my father?’ Thorin said, feeling as though all of the air had been knocked out of him. Khael shifted closer to him, curling up on herself, and Thorin let his right hand fall from the arm of his chair, so that his fingertips brushed along the fur of her ruff.

‘Yes. Both of them. I’m so sorry.’

Why Frerin? Why was it that, time and time again, it was his sunny little brother whose life was stolen from him before he could enjoy all that life had to offer? Why, for once, couldn’t _Thorin_ be the one who died? And his father – Thrain’s life seemed destined to be cut short before he could ascend to the throne. Thorin’s heart ached.

‘It’s not your fault,’ said Thorin gruffly.

‘Still, I am sorry.’ Bilbo looked as though he were about to reach for Thorin, to offer him comfort, but he hesitated, and aborted the movement before it could be completed.

‘Is anyone trying to _stop_ this sickness?’

Bilbo drew back a little. ‘I know Erebor and the Elves of the Greenwood are trying to find a cure. We’ve had no luck so far. I just…wish there was something I could do,’ he said helplessly.

‘I have found,’ said Thorin, slowly, ‘that your presence alone leads to solutions.’

Bilbo all but choked on air at that. Awkwardly, he caught his breath, clearing his throat and pressing the back of his hand to his mouth, staring at Thorin.

‘That’s-that’s…I mean, thank you, but I don’t know _how_. I’m no doctor. I’m just a scholar.’ He laughed self-deprecatingly. ‘Not even that, really.’

‘You underestimate yourself,’ said Thorin with absolute certainty.

‘I’m not just being modest,’ Bilbo said stubbornly, even as his cheeks coloured again, ‘I’m more of a nuisance than anything.’

Thorin matched his stubbornness with some of his own. ‘I’m sure the Thorin of this world would value your counsel.’

‘If he could remember my name,’ said Bilbo, ‘or say more than two words than me.’

But that could not be, so, surely. Thorin could not believe that, no matter how adamant Bilbo was about it. Surely they could not be so distant – at the very least Thorin was certain Bilbo would have caught his attention simply because he was the only hobbit in residence in Thranduil’s kingdom.

In a flash, Thorin thought back to the book he had found in his room only that morning, and the carefully-preserved poem he had found among the pages. Penmanship, Bilbo had said – penmanship good enough that even the Elves had deigned it worthy enough to be used for their records.

‘Did you ever gift me something?’ Thorin hazarded, and then knew he had hit the mark when Bilbo sat up straight, alarm flashing across his face.

‘Yes, I…I did. For my Birthday, I gave you…the _other_ Thorin, a poem that I had written.’ Bilbo snorted, mouth twisting in discomfit. ‘Imagine that, giving a would-be-King something as ordinary as a piece of paper! I’m sure you got rid of it at soon as possible, and rightly so.' He lifted his head to glare at Throrin suspiciously. 'But how did _you_ know about that?’

But Thorin did not want to give away this version of Thorin’s secrets too easily. Perhaps the Thorin here wanted to be friends with Bilbo, but the trappings of his role held him back? Thorin could only speculate. But he did know one thing - if this Thorin was burdened down by responsibilities as Crown Prince, by grief and by the threat of plague upon Erebor and an influx of refugees, he would need all the sources of support that were on offer.

‘I have my ways,’ said Thorin, knowing this would infuriate Bilbo, ‘but take my word on it. You are not as forgotten as you believe you are.’

Bilbo gave him a long look, brows drawn together in consternation. He looked to be at war with himself, and Thorin took pity on him.

‘Be persistent. I assure you – I would value your friendship in the days ahead.’

‘Why?’ Bilbo persisted, ‘what’s coming?’

‘More hardship, I imagine,’ Thorin said, thinking back to his meeting. ‘And my instincts tell me that this version of me works all hours, without a pause for breath.’

‘He does,’ Bilbo confirmed, ‘the Princes always try and persuade him to join them on their hunts, but he always refuses. I…I have seen signs of great strain on his face and-‘ Bilbo cut himself off abruptly, cheeks colouring. ‘Not that I’ve been looking too closely, of course! I’m just…very observant,’ he said, eyebrows doing a funny little dance on his brow as he grimaced, looking as though he wished he could retract his words.

Thorin’s stomach flipped slowly. He took in the red on Bilbo’s ear tips, and the firmly averted gaze. Khael had torn her eyes away from Bilbo and was now looking at Thorin expectantly, but Thorin did not meet her look. Whatever this was, he firmly decided that he did not want to expect it too closely.

‘Then if that is true, I may need a friend to talk to. You might even be able to shed some light on the problem at hand.’

‘I still think-‘

‘Truly. You have to trust me in this.’

‘Alright,’ said Bilbo at length. ‘If you insist.’

‘I do insist,’ Thorin said simply.

Bilbo curled up on himself a little, his eyes darting from Khael to Thorin to Khael again.

‘How much longer will you be here for, do you think?’ he said.

‘Not much longer, I suspect,’ said Thorin. He suspected that, now he and Bilbo had met, they would be moving on very soon. He found himself sad to leave this place – he would have liked to have stayed a little longer, and discussed the situation of Rohan, and seen if Bilbo could use some of his Hobbit-logic to shed new light on the problem.

‘You’re going to cause such a fuss when you disappear.’

Thorin smirked. ‘It’s a shame I will not be around to see it,’ he said. ‘I’m sure the Elvenking will be very confused as to who he was playing host to.’

Bilbo laughed at the thought. ‘And I will not breathe a word of it. They’ll think me mad. Mad Bilbo Baggins,’ he shook his head and chuckled.

The title caused a pang in Thorin’s chest. ‘No, best not to say anything,’ he said firmly.

And without warning, their quiet conversation was rudely interrupted when Kíli and Fíli all but fell through the door, Kíli laughing, Fíli grinning, their daemons following hot on their heels.

Bilbo immediately stood at the sight of them, back as straight as a ruler.

‘Mister Baggins!’ exclaimed Kíli, ‘we didn’t expect to see you here!’

‘No, well, your Uncle-‘

‘We were just discussing our…situation,’ said Thorin, giving Kíli a meaningful look. Kíli’s grin faded to a smile.

‘And have you discussed all that you needed to?’ said Fíli.

‘We have,’ said Thorin. His heart was gladdened to see both Kíli and Fíli in one piece, having so clearly enjoyed themselves, but at the same time he dearly wished that he and Bilbo could have been afforded just a few more minutes to themselves.

‘I’ll…I’ll leave you to it,’ said Bilbo, his awkwardness returned full force in the face of Fíli and Kíli’s exuberance, ‘I have things to see to before dinner – oh! I am probably so behind on my work!’

‘I’m sorry to have kept you,’ said Thorin.

‘Not at all,’ smiled Bilbo, ‘I don’t care in the slightest.’

Thorin smiled back easily, and after a moment Fíli coughed, quietly but pointedly.

‘Yes,’ said Bilbo, coming back to himself, ‘well, thank you for your time, Your Majesty, and it was good to see you, too, Your Majesties.’

He began to back away, towards the door.

‘Remember what I said,’ Thorin told him with mock-sternness.

‘I will,’ said Bilbo with another small smile.

‘Goodbye, Bilbo.’

‘Goodbye…Thorin,’ said Bilbo, and took his leave.

Kíli and Fíli swung around to stare at Thorin as the door clicked shut.

‘How was your outing,’ said Thorin with a look that implied, _don’t you dare ask me about anything that happened while you were gone_.

Fíli, well-versed in Thorin’s _looks_ , took the hint and said, ‘it was…it was actually…’

‘…quite enjoyable,’ completed his brother, brow furrowed in confusion. ‘Apart from _Nârù_ here trying to scupper us at every opportunity.’

‘I kept forgetting that we were supposed to be dumb animals!’ she said, entirely too-innocently. ‘It’s not my fault.’

‘And KIli here kept having to pretend he could throw voices,’ Lukhudith snickered, ‘he looked half-mad and the Captain asked him - _twice_ \- if he had been drinking.’

Thorin blinked at the sound of Lukhudith’s voice. He was relieved to hear her speak, but he did not want to call attention to it.

‘A _female_ voice, too!’ bemoaned Kíli. ‘What must she think of me?’

Fíli patted his shoulder in a consoling manner.

There was another knock on the door, and Thorin called, ‘enter!’

Another attendant – not the one from yesterday, but a new one – stepped in.

‘Forgive me, Your Majesties,’ she said, ‘but I’ve been asked to deliver a note to the Princes.’

Fíli accepted the slip of paper with raised eyebrows. The Elf bowed and closed the door behind her.

‘You are cordially invited,’ Fíli read aloud, ‘to a drinking competition. Your opponent will be the esteemed Prince Legolas and the Captain of the Guards, Tauriel. If you are brave enough to meet this challenge, come to the Lower Hall after the evening meal is served.’

Silence met this reading.

‘This world,’ said Kíli, slightly stunned, ‘is too strange by far.’

'Agreed,’ said Thorin. There was a suggestion of now familiar darkness about the doorway. ‘Let’s try another one, shall we?’


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really so sorry for how late this is. I had terrible writer's block for this chapter, but I think I'm back on track now. Thank you all so much for your kind words and your comments, the knowledge that people wanted to see more really did keep me going while writing this. Thank you.
> 
> This chapter is pretty action-packed. I hope you enjoy it!

Thick banks of fog greeted them when they stepped through the door. The ground underfoot was solid enough and covered in long thick grass and reeds, but it was broken up here and there by large groupings of water, the surfaces of which glittered in the weak light that was filtering through the heavy fog.

‘A marsh,’ said Fíli. ‘That’s…different.’

‘Watch your footing,’ said Thorin. ‘Let’s hope that whatever instinct has gotten us this far will find us a safe path.’

‘It’s a cheery place, isn’t it?’ said Lukhudith, ‘perfect for a picnic.’

‘I don’t think we’ll be eating anytime soon, Luk,’ said Fíli.

‘Shame,’ said Kíli, ‘it’s enough to make me wish I’d brought some Elven food with me.’

‘Their venison was-‘ Thorin realised what he was saying and continued, grudgingly, ‘passable.’

He pretended not to hear the snickers of his nephews behind him. The grasses of the marsh could very well be hiding unseen spots of water, and they would need to be careful of where they walked. Khael had none of his caution, striding on ahead on long legs and choosing her own route across the marsh, and Thorin followed in her paw prints, albeit with a little more hesitance. The water they passed was too-dark, too-still and seemingly bottomless to Thorin’s eyes, and unease curled up Thorin’s spine when he stared at it for more than a few moments.

‘Our theory was proved wrong,’ said Fíli suddenly when they had been walking for an hour.

‘What theory is that?’ asked Thorin.

‘That me and Kíli wouldn’t exist unless Erebor fell. We were alive and well in that last world and I didn’t even hear a whisper about a dragon.’

‘Well that’s a relief,’ said Kíli, but Thorin glanced back just in time to see a troubled look sweep across his face. ‘But…that means father might have been alive back there. We could have…we could have gone to the mountain and seen him.’

‘I hadn’t even thought of that,’ said Fíli in a whisper, ‘I had just assumed he was still dead, but, but he _could_ have still been alive.’

‘Alive or dead,’ said Thorin, feeling as though he should step in before the idea grew any further, ‘had we gone to the mountain we would have been marked as imposters in an instant. We would have spent the rest of our lives in Erebor’s dungeons.’

‘But we could have been careful about it. We could have spoken to him,’ insisted Kíli, ‘even if it was just for a moment.’

Thorin stopped in his tracks, turning around to face them both. ‘But he would not be the Víli that I knew. He would not have been _your father_. He would not have been the father that brought you home lavender from the fields to help you sleep, Kíli, or sang you both songs in front of the fire late at night. Or the father that taught you how to hunt and track in the forests of Ered Luin, Fíli, and would ruffle your hair just to see you scowl at him.’

 _Or the Dwarf that so bravely marched to war for a cause that was not his own_ , added Thorin in the privacy of his mind. But his assurances had had little effect on Kíli and Fíli; they stood with their gazes distant, pale as ghosts, grief overshadowing Fíli’s expression as though he was enduring the loss all over again.

‘Do not think of these worlds as real,’ Thorin went on, still hoping to banish the sadness and longing from their eyes. ‘Perhaps they are merely illusions, conjured up by this strange path.’

But, truth or not, he knew that this, too, was cold comfort to the both of them.

They resumed their march, Kíli and Fíli lost to their thoughts. Khael drew back, walking closer to Thorin, and to Lukhudith and Nârù.

There was a chill in the air, and the fog seemed to cling to their faces and settle in their hair like cobwebs. The silence was oppressive, as though the weather had a weight to it, and Thorin felt a shiver crawl over his skull as they made their way carefully across the landmasses. He was now infinitely grateful that they had been able to borrow warmer clothes from the last world.

Khael suddenly stopped dead in her tracks, ears up and tail held straight out. Thorin, who had been watching her out of the corner of his eye, flung out an arm to halt Kíli and Fíli. He sensed them and their wolves tense, heard hands straying to weapons and saw Lukhudith’s ears twitching, trying to locate the source of whatever it was she could hear.

‘What is it?’ hissed Kíli.

Thorin shook his head, staring out into the swirling fog. A long moment passed, and then,

‘Is that…is that hoof beats?’ whispered Fíli. The sound of rhythmic beats on the ground could just about be heard. They were also getting louder - closer.

‘No, not hoof beats,’ Thorin growled, ‘that’s no horse, that’s a-‘

A white warg burst from the fog, and on its back rode a far-too familiar nightmare. Bleak despair and instinctive fury awoke in Thorin’s chest, but warg and rider hurtled past, intent on something else, on another figure that was struggling to rise from the ground not far from where they stood. They watched, stunned, as Azog swung his mace and landed a terrible blow on the figure’s chest. Thorin’s ribs flared in an echo of pain that flickered up and over his shoulder whip-fast, forcing him to take a startled, deep breath.

‘That’s – that’s _you_ ,’ said Kíli at Thorin’s side, for there was no mistaking the form of the dwarf who now lay sprawled on the ground, his cry of pain oddly muffled, as though heard underwater. ‘It’s the night we were rescued by the eagles. It can’t possibly be real, can it?’ But Fíli’s face had gone as white as a sheet, his jaw set tightly - no assurances would be forthcoming from his brother.

On all sides the white fog was quickly darkening to thick black smoke, and deep fires began to glow, lighting up the spectral shapes of broken trees and the trunk that they had clung to so desperately during Azog’s assault. But Thorin had eyes only for the battle that was playing out before them; his burning blood was not eased in the least that this was clearly some manner of illusion, and Khael clearly agreed – she had not stopped growling since Azog and his warg had appeared out of thin air.

The warg swung its head back, clamping its jaws around the defenceless Thorin’s chest and clenching shut. He snarled and howled in pain and the watching Thorin felt as though those vicious fangs were piercing his flesh all over again. He felt a flicker of something, a ghostly sensation of hot blood spilling from his chest, and he dug the fingers of his spare hand into his chainmail, trying to tell his body and his mind that he was unhurt.

They could hear the rest of the Company calling out, in the dark, their helplessness and frustration so evident in their cries that Thorin came back to himself a little, forcing himself to take deep breaths. He hadn’t heard them the first time around – the pain and the roaring fires had all but deafened him, and so it was surreal to be watching this as an observer now, free to take in all the little details of the battle that he had been unable to see when he had lived through it.

The warg released the dwarf in its jaws, flinging him in a wide arc. His battered body landed just two feet from where they stood. His eyes flickered and rolled back into his head for half a moment, fighting to stay awake, and Thorin knew that one hand would soon be pawing the dirt in a desperate attempt to reclaim his sword.

‘I cannot watch this,’ said Fíli suddenly, ‘Thorin-‘

‘I know,’ said Thorin, putting a hand to Fíli’s shoulder, taking some of his weight, though he did not know who was supporting who, anymore. ‘But the ground is obscured – I cannot see more than a foot in front of me.’

Another orc had appeared from the white and black fog – Thorin’s would-be executioner. A blade was put to Thorin’s throat. Fíli’s shoulders shook, and Kíli half turned away.

Thorin took one look at the strain on Fíli’s face and said, ‘but we can risk it if-‘

A startled shout drew their attention. Thorin had almost forgotten what happened next, and so when Bilbo Baggin’s small figure broke free of the fog to bodily tackle the orc to the ground, Thorin felt all the breath leave his body. Mouth agape, heart in his throat, he looked on as Bilbo was thrown to the dirt, the orc’s sword now poised and ready to take Bilbo’s life. But the hobbit was far too quick – Sting flashed out, plunging into the orc’s shoulder, and suddenly Bilbo had the advantage, his recklessness and utter disregard for his own life driving him forwards, giving him the strength to push the orc back and deal out a death blow, stabbing it once in the stomach. The orc screamed and writhed, life leaving its limbs quickly, and Bilbo wrenched Sting free from its belly, stumbling when the force of it knocked him off balance. But when he took his place between Azog and Thorin, his stance was utterly unwavering.

Fíli let out a breath, but Thorin could hardly say he felt any sort of relief himself. He had passed out just moments after Bilbo had entered the fight – he had not been conscious to see the brave act in its entirety, to see the hobbit’s poor excuse for a sword stance and his clumsy, pointless swings as he attempted to ward off Azog. When Balin had related the whole story for Thorin’s benefit later, he had clearly downplayed how close Bilbo had come to being killed. Thorin now felt his initial ire over the whole incident returning tenfold. What had the hobbit been _thinking_?

The hobbit’s face, cast in the light of the fires, caught Thorin’s eye. There was terror a-plenty to be found in those comely features, but courage and determination were winning out, firming the line of his mouth and hardening his fierce eyes. Thorin felt a stirring deep in his chest, beyond the thudding of his heart, and the intensity of it took his breath away all over again.

Mounted wargs stalked closer. Bilbo held his ground. Thorin, against all reasoning to the contrary, found Orcrist in his hand, but no sooner was it in his grip than fierce Dwarven war cries were splitting the air. And in the space of a breath the vision vanished altogether, leaving nothing but white fog in its wake. 

A full minute passed before any of them spoke.

‘I’m now very glad that we taught Bilbo how to fight,’ said Kíli, his voice slightly strangled, ‘that looked far too close for comfort. Did you see his stance?’

‘His guard was all over the place,’ agreed Lukhudith, ‘he was lucky we got to him in time.’

‘Yes,’ said Fíli slowly, ‘very lucky, and very brave.’ Thorin saw Fíli glance at him out of the corner of his eye.

‘What _was_ that?’ said Nârù, ‘was it a vision?’ She shifted on her front paws uneasily and stepped in closer to Lukhudith.

‘I think so. But why that moment?’ said Kíli, frowning, ‘why show us _that_?’

Fíli stepped forwards, and when he spoke next, his words were gentle. ‘This journey is about Thorin and Bilbo,’ he said, ‘so it’s hardly a surprise that we were shown a moment that was so important to the both of them.’

Thorin finally met their eyes. ‘It’s about Bilbo, Fíli,’ he corrected, ‘Bilbo is the reason we’re here.’

‘No,’ said Fíli firmly, ‘that ghostly woman appeared to _you_ , and you’re the one that chose to take her offer. Kíli and I had our own reasons for coming, but this isn’t about us. Is it?’

Fíli’s eyes were far too knowing, and Thorin had to remind himself that neither Kíli nor Fíli knew about the conversation he had had with the real Bilbo, nor the way that Thorin’s very being seemed to innately know where each version of Bilbo was in every single world they found themselves in. Thorin looked away, pushing the speculation – newly awoken by his nephew’s assertion – to the back of his mind.

‘Don’t write our story before it’s done, Fíli,’ was all Thorin said before he turned away, ‘let’s see where the path leads us.’

 

 

 

The path, as it turned out, lead them through fog, fog and more fog. While they did not tire in the same way as they would if they had been in the real world, the trek was nevertheless mentally exhausting. Despite his best efforts, Thorin could not help but analyse the vision and its meaning in the privacy of his own mind, and he was torn between begrudgingly agreeing with Fíli and arguing against it with as many examples as he could think of. Fíli’s experience in the tunnels had not been related to Thorin and Bilbo’s friendship at all, and was the best counter-argument he had against the idea. Still, the thought worried at him, and the next vision they came across hardly helped.

A figure began to form from the mist. Thorin paused, sensing Fíli and Kíli and their daemons doing the same. Khael trotted forwards, as close as she dared, the strong muscles on her flanks twitching in tense anticipation for what was to come.

A far more sedate scene appeared. Another Thorin sat on what was presumably a wooden bench, his elbows on the table in front of him and his hands clasped around a tankard. He looked entirely out of place in the middle of the marsh with the blankets of swirling fog churning around him, but the watching Dwarves and daemons were too transfixed to pass comment on the odd juxtaposition.

Thorin half-considered marching on through it, disregarding the possible dangers of not being able to see where they were going, but he thought he recognised the coat that this Thorin wore – it was a ragged thing, too big by far in length and not wide enough across the shoulders, and the sleeves were rolled up several times to sit at the elbow, baring Thorin’s forearms. Laketown, then - perhaps just before they had set off for the Lonely Mountain. There was nothing traumatic about this particular moment, as far as Thorin could recall.

Another figure appeared – Bilbo stepped in, taking a seat next to Thorin on the bench. Free from the fear and anger induced by watching Azog threaten Bilbo’s life, Thorin could now appreciate this past version of Bilbo a great deal more. The hobbit was lean from their time on the road but in a way that spoke of strength and good health rather than starvation, and his cheeks were rosy from the chilly outside air, and his eyes were as bright as ever.

‘Has that ale offended you in some way?’ said Bilbo as he took his seat. The other Thorin blinked out of his reverie and glanced at his companion.

‘Other than the awful taste, no,’ said Thorin.

Bilbo gave a little hum, peering into Thorin’s cup. ‘They’ve watered it down too much, haven’t they?’ 

‘Watered it down?’ Thorin said, ‘I was referring more to the taste. You consider this watered down?’

‘It is a bit.’ At Thorin’s raised eyebrows, Bilbo smiled slowly and said, ‘I’ll have to get my hands on some Hobbit ale at some point during this mad venture. Then you’ll see what I mean.’ He shook his head, ‘but that’s not what I came to talk to you about.’

‘Oh?’

Thorin, who looked on with Khael by his side, felt his stomach curl uncomfortably. He now knew exactly which moment this was, and while the contents of their conversation were not secret, Thorin considered it private nonetheless. 

‘Yes,’ said Bilbo, ‘it was my birthday, yesterday.’

‘It was?’ Thorin said, surprised. ‘Why didn’t you say? We have little we could gift you at the moment, but we could have had a toast in your honour, at the very least.’

‘It was his birthday?’ muttered Kíli, ‘he didn’t say! I would have liked to have wished him a happy birthday, if nothing else.’

‘There was too much to think about, Kíli,’ said Fíli, ‘I’m sure he didn’t mind.’

A second later, Bilbo echoed the sentiment. ‘It’s quite alright,’ he chuckled, ‘and besides, that’s not the way us Hobbits go about things for our birthday. We don’t receive gifts, we give them out instead.’

‘What a strange practice,’ Thorin said, ‘why on earth would you give _out_ gifts?’

‘And having a special comb for your beard that no one else is allowed to handle isn’t strange at all,’ said Bilbo mildly. ‘Nor is insisting that every spare bit of hair, beard and skin be adorned with metal a _strange practice_.’

‘You sound as if you have quite a list going there.’

Bilbo gave him a withering look that was tempered by his smile. ‘I do, in fact. I’ll share it with you sometime, and perhaps you can explain some of it to me.’

‘Only if you explain hobbit customs in turn. Hobbits are odd folk, by Dwarven standards.’

‘And I am odd by Hobbit standards,’ said Bilbo, ‘so I wonder what that makes _me_.’ He said this lightly enough, but his brow furrowed into a troubled frown.

Thorin knocked his elbow with his own. ‘It makes you this Company’s burglar,’ he told him, gazing at Bilbo steadily, his voice warm and sure in equal measure.

Kíli let out a small laugh, loud enough for it to reach the real Thorin’s ears. When Thorin glanced at him, his expression was carefully impassive.

Bilbo’s cheeks, meanwhile, had begun to colour, and he held Thorin’s look for a few moments, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, before he turned away to rummage in his coat pocket.

‘But back to the subject at hand,’ said Bilbo, still fighting off a smile. ‘My birthday.’

He drew out a piece of cloth that was clearly wrapped around something, and laid it on the table between them. His fingers twitched over the dirty, off-white fabric, arranging it neatly on the tabletop, his fluttering hands betraying his sudden nervousness. Thorin was painfully reminded of the Bilbo from the last world, the one who had been so unsure of his welcome in Thorin’s presence. Why had he not seen how nervous Bilbo had been the first time that this exchange had taken place?

‘I…I got you something. Well, I _made_ you something,’ amended Bilbo, straightening the edge of the cloth once more. ‘That’s one of the few things we have in common, apparently – Hobbits prefer to give away things we’ve made with our own hands, too. Usually it’s a cake, but I had no flour, or any eggs, or an oven, or _anything_ , really-‘

‘Bilbo?’ said the other Thorin, confusion lacing his tone.

Bilbo took a deep, steadying breath, flicking glances up at Thorin, and said, ‘Bofur assured me that this would be a suitable gift. Between friends. Which we are, I hope.’

‘I think we can be sure of that,’ said Thorin, ‘after all we’ve been through.’

‘Right.’ Bilbo smiled tightly. ‘Well, as I said, I had only a few options as to what to make for you but…but I hope you like it.’

The Thorin who could do little but stand and watch it all unfold felt tension straighten his spine; with Kíli and Fíli present, he was suddenly aware of the intimacy of this moment.

‘I am sure I will,’ said the Thorin sat at the table, reaching forwards to fold back the cloth, leaving Bilbo with no choice but to scoot back on the bench. ‘You did not need to do this, Bilbo,’ he said as he unwrapped the excessive layers, ‘it is kind of you, but-‘

The present was revealed, and his voice was lost somewhere in his throat. Fíli and Kíli stepped as close as they dared, their curiosity evident. Khael pressed into Thorin’s side, and Thorin closed his eyes briefly, knowing that there would soon be questions flooding in from both of them.

‘Is that, is that a _bead_?’ said Fíli, almost on cue.

‘Is it alright?’ said Bilbo in almost the same moment, mouth downturned with worry. ‘I know it’s not Dwarven quality, but I followed Bofur’s instructions as best I could.’ He gave a strained chuckle. ‘Burnt myself a couple of times, too. Metalworking is not a skill I can claim to have, I’m afraid.’

Thorin reached down to pluck his present from the wrappings, holding it up the light. It was a small hair bead, made from what looked like brass, and on one side was the unmistakable shape of an acorn.

‘Is this…is this made from one of your buttons?’ Thorin asked.

‘My last button, in fact,’ said Bilbo, and he now seemed resigned to the fact that Thorin did not like his gift. ‘The only one I have left. It’s survived goblins, wargs, Elves and a trip down a river. Look, I know it’s shoddy work, but-‘

‘No.’ Thorin collected himself visibly, shaking his head a little, turning the bead over and over in his fingers, taking in every flaw with dark eyes. ‘No, it is…it is wonderful, Mister Baggins. Thank you very much. It is a fine gift.’

Bilbo scrutinised the dwarf’s face for any sign of falsehood, and when he found none some of the tension lifted from his expression. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘are you sure?’

‘Very sure,’ said Thorin, smiling, ‘thank you. I will treasure it.’

‘You _accepted_ it?’ asked Kíli, agog.

‘What else could he do?’ said Fíli.

But Thorin was oblivious to their questioning. He was too busy staring, transfixed, at the soft look that had lit up Bilbo’s eyes. The other Thorin had turned away to further admire the bead, but Bilbo’s gaze remained on the dwarf’s face, his eyes drinking in Thorin’s features with something approaching longing. Thorin’s heart slowly, carefully, fluttered in his chest.

The vision vanished, and Fíli and Kíli, Lukhudith and Nârù, all turned to Thorin with sharp eyes. There was no question that they had both seen what Thorin had.

‘You didn’t accept it out of courtesy, did you?’ said Kíli softly. ‘You meant it.’

‘It does not matter,’ said Thorin.

‘It _does_ matter,’ Kíli said, ‘because Fíli was right. This is about the two of you, and Bilbo-‘

Thorin couldn’t bear hearing what he had to say next. He stomped forwards, past both of them, Khael only too happy to follow.

‘We should keep going,’ he all but growled in a tone that brokered no argument.

Because while the giving of beads between the Dwarves of Ered Luin might have been a sign of friendship, for the Dwarves of Erebor beads were only ever gifted by the closest of your family members.

Or by your One.

 

 

 

By unanimous consent, not one word was uttered about beads, or hobbits, or Thorin and Bilbo’s friendship. The rest of the day passed without any more visions, which Thorin was distantly grateful for; his mind was already in turmoil, and another vision from his past would not be welcome in the least.

The sickly light that filtered through the fog never changed, never dimmed, and so when Thorin declared that they should rest, they were faced with having to sleep in what amounted to twilight. They settled on a patch of ground that was larger than the others, but they huddled close the centre in a tight circle, just in case the edges were hiding any drops. Thorin and Khael took first watch – sleep, he knew, would not be forthcoming that night, and he might as well put his restlessness to good use. Neither Kíli nor Fíli dissuaded him from this, instead settling down to rest in silence, their daemons staying close, Nârù shooting Khael and Thorin looks when she thought they weren’t paying attention. Thorin paid her no mind – he was lost to that odd mindset between alert watchfulness and daydreaming that those who had taken watches for years tended to perfect over time. The bead that Bilbo had gifted to him found its way to his hands, and he rolled it over and over between his fingers as he stared out into the blank landscape.

Fíli and Kíli were both still sat up and awake when Thorin heard laughter whispering through the fog. Khael leapt to her feet with a startled growl, alarmed.

‘Did you hear that?’ said Thorin when there was no reaction from either or his nephews, not even from their daemons.

‘Hear what?’ said Lukhudith.

‘Laughter,’ muttered Thorin, straining his hearing. ‘I heard laughter.’

‘We didn’t hear anything,’ said Fíli slowly.

‘Not a peep,’ agreed Kíli.

Thorin relaxed minutely, his heart still going a mile a minute. He was aware of Kíli’s cautious, worrying glances in his direction, but he ignored him in favour of staring out into the gloom. Khael looked back at him, her bright eyes full of worry and fear, and a dread chill crept up Thorin’s spine. It felt as though there were eyes upon him once more - just as there had been in the tunnels - watching them from just beyond their little circle, and the knowledge that they were perhaps not as alone as they had thought was a cold weight in Thorin’s stomach.

He had all but dismissed it as a trick of the mind when Khael’s head shot up at the sound of footsteps. Light footsteps, the beat of them interwoven with achingly familiar laughter…

A bank of fog rolled back, and the small, slight form of Frerin was revealed. He stood just a few paces from where Thorin sat, his cheeks flushed with youth and free of any hint of a beard. Thorin stared at him, dumbfounded, and Khael – who was equally transfixed, let out a long, pained whine.

Frerin was dressed in formal dark blue robes that had been knocked askew in play, so that the collar of his jacket hung from one bony shoulder. His eyes were bright with mischief, his golden hair unkempt, and his braids were loose and messy, in a state that would have had their mother scowling and reaching for the nearest comb.

It was impossible, Thorin knew this. He could not really be here. But his heart lifted all the same at the sight of him, free of the horrors of war, free of the shadow of death, young and carefree and full of life.

‘Won’t you come and play, brother?’ said Frerin.

‘Frerin,’ gasped Thorin, ‘ _Frerin_.’

Frerin grinned, his cheeks dimpling. ‘Come play, brother. You promised!’ And he turned and darted back into the fog. 

Thorin was up and on his feet before he knew what he was doing, hand outstretched, his brother’s name on his lips.

‘Frerin!’ he shouted, but he was held back by an arm across his chest and another at his shoulder.

‘ _Stop_!’ commanded Fíli, ‘Thorin, stop!’

Thorin’s chest heaved in ragged breaths. Very slowly, he lowered his gaze and looked down at his feet to find that he was stood on the edge of their little island of land. Another step more and he would have toppled into the water. He stared down at the dark, still surface, shivering faintly.

‘Thorin?’ asked Kíli, not loosening his grip on Thorin’s shoulder, ‘what is it? What did you see?’

‘You both look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ said Lukhudith from where she was nudging at Khael’s side, trying to direct the wolf’s attention away from where Frerin had disappeared.

‘A ghost,’ echoed Thorin, voice strained to breaking point, ‘yes. Something like that.’

 

 

 

Kíli attempted to press him for answers, but Thorin would have none of it, and when Kíli stubbornly refused to leave it alone, Thorin all but shouted at him to shut up and go to sleep. Thorin had not raised his voice at Kíli since his nephew was a young dwarfling; Kíli did not subsist into sulky silence as he once would have - instead worry warred with anger on his face, and Thorin knew that this argument was merely postponed, not finished.

Khael curled up beside him, ears flicking back and forth, alert and watchful. The hours passed achingly slowly, and when Fíli woke to take over Thorin’s watch, Thorin remained awake and made no attempt to sleep. He and Fíli sat side-by-side with not a word passed between them, and their silence bordered on uncomfortable. At some ungodly hour of the morning Thorin must have finally fallen asleep, because he was suddenly brought back to consciousness by Fíli shaking his shoulder.

‘What? What is it?’ said Thorin, shifting from asleep to awake in an instant. His entire body ached with having slept sitting upright, but of greater importance was the fear in Fíli’s eyes.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘It’s Kíli and Nârù,’ Fíli said urgently, ‘come and see. No weapons needed,’ he added when Thorin instinctively reached for Orcrist.

A quick glance confirmed that Kíli and Nârù had all but vanished, and terror froze Thorin’s veins. _Not again_.

Fíli and Lukhudith lead them quickly into the clammy fog at a half-run. They did not have far to go, and Thorin heaved a huge sigh when he saw Kíli and Nârù. But his breath stuttered in the same moment, for Kíli was crouched before yet another version of Thorin.

‘Thorin,’ Kíli was saying, ‘you have to stop. _Thorin_.’

All around them the fog was suffused with a golden glow, and there was a suggestion of piles upon piles of coins and gems and treasure in all directions, towering above their heads. Another version of Thorin was knelt amongst the hoard, his attention firmly on the coins he had scooped up in both hands. He seemed mesmerised as the coins spilled over his hands, slipped through his fingers, landing on another pile of coins that sat in his lap. The bright, tinkling sound of gold hitting gold underpinned Kíli’s increasingly distressed voice.

‘You have to stop,’ Kíli said, ‘can’t you remember why we’re here? Thorin, please.’

But this vision of Thorin could not hear him. Even if he had been real, it was doubtful Kíli would have been able to pull his attention away from the gold pouring from his hands. His eyes were distant, misty, and utterly transfixed by the way that some of the coins stuck to the palm of his hand, before falling along with the rest to make that luscious sound of bright gold, resonating with power.

Something deep, deep in Thorin’s very being stirred. It was accompanied in quick succession by nausea twisting around in his stomach. The very sight of his own face, slack and yet almost _hungry_ at the same time, was disturbing enough that he wrenched his eyes away. His gaze fell on Nârù, who was circling another figure a little way off. Another Fíli, his back to them, was slowly making his way through Erebor’s riches, carefully inspecting everything he picked up, holding each and every gem up to the light before putting them into pockets that were already heavy with treasure.

‘I have no idea how long they’ve been like this,’ said Lukhudith, ‘I woke Fíli not long ago when I noticed them missing.’

‘They believe this Thorin and this Fíli are real,’ said Fíli, ‘I haven’t been able to convince them otherwise.’

Was this really what he had looked like in the throes of gold-madness? It was horrifying. Some parts of what had taken place inside the mountain in those first few days of reclaiming Erebor were lost to Thorin forever; he had blacked out on more than one occasion, coming back to himself to find that he was sat atop a pile of gold, sifting through the treasure with no idea of how he had come to be there. He had written it off as a side-effect of exhaustion, at first, and had forced himself to ignore it. There had been more important things to think about. Like the Arkenstone.

But it could not be ignored now, not when it was being presented to him, as plain as day. For a split second Thorin thought he saw the ghost of his grandfather, lost to madness, pass over this Thorin’s face. He tried to resist the urge to be sick. Khael was shivering at his side, her powerful form now oddly cowed, and Thorin put the palm of his hand to her back, hoping to ground the both of them in the touch.

‘Kíli,’ he called, ‘Kíli, they’re not real.’ He stepped forward, intent on catching Kíli’s eye. ‘It’s just a trick.’

‘Thorin,’ Kíli said, oblivious, ‘why won’t you look at me? It’s Kíli. Your sister-son. Don’t you remember me?’

‘I’m _here_ Kíli,’ said Thorin.

‘Don’t go away again,’ continued Kíli, ‘don’t…I can’t bring you back. I couldn’t the first time, and I-‘

‘ _Kíli_ ,’ Thorin said again, forcing his voice to become firm, utilising the same that tone he used for ordering troops on the battlefield.

At last Kíli flinched, his wide eyes snapping from one Thorin to another, and the confusion latent on his face was quickly exchanged for distrust.

‘Thorin? I don’t…I don’t understand,’ he said.

‘It’s us, Kíli,’ said Thorin, ‘we’re real.’

‘But-‘

‘Look at our daemons,’ Thorin said tersely, ‘ _look_ , Kíli. These illusions don’t have daemons, do they? Because they’re not _real_.’

Kíli’s brows knitted together as his eyes darted around, taking in Fíli and Lukhudith and Khael. It felt as though he was swallowing broken glass, but Thorin forced himself to be gentle when he said, ‘we’re real, Kíli. Neither of us are gold-mad. Not anymore, in my case,’ he added under his breath.

‘Do you promise?’ said Nârù, warily approaching them.

‘I promise,’ said Thorin.

Kíli’s expression slowly smoothed out. He took a shaky breath and looked back at the other Thorin, but still he rose to his feet. Thorin felt his heart swell with pride. He put his arm around Kíli’s shoulders, drawing him in close, and as they walked back to their makeshift camp together, the fog swallowed up the nightmare that lay behind them.

 

 

 

The night, however, was not yet finished for Thorin.

He had not intended to fall back to sleep, but clearly, his body had had other plans. He opened his eyes to find that he was once again stood in the middle of a misty forest clearing. Once again, he was not alone.

‘Thorin,’ said Bilbo around a resigned sigh, ‘you’re dreaming again.’

‘It would seem so,’ said Thorin carefully, attempting to surreptitiously rake his eyes over Bilbo’s frame. The hobbit looked as thin and as pale as the last time they had spoken – perhaps a shade paler, unless the light here was deceiving him.

‘You didn’t heed my warning,’ Bilbo accused.

‘When do I ever listen to reason?’ Thorin attempted to joke, but Bilbo did not so much as twitch, and his eyes were flinty with something nearing anger.

‘You’re putting Kíli and Fíli in danger.’

‘I know,’ said Thorin heavily, ‘but they’re with me now – I have little choice but to protect them as best I can.’ _I am failing_ , he almost added, but he managed to bite his tongue just in time.

‘I’d tell you to turn back again, but I know it wouldn’t make the slightest bit of difference,’ said Bilbo, cupping his elbows in his hands, the movement strangely vulnerable to Thorin’s eyes.

‘No,’ agreed Thorin, ‘it would not.’

Bilbo snorted and shook his head.

‘You’ve finally reclaimed your Kingdom, Thorin. Why in the name of all that is good and green would you risk that?’

‘For you,’ said Thorin simply, the admission tumbling from his mouth before he realised the full extent of what he was saying. Bilbo’s eyes widened, and Thorin heard him gasp. But Thorin refused to retract it – he realised now that it was the honest truth.

How deep the sentiment ran, he did not know. The thought was terrifying.

‘You’ve changed your tune since last time,’ said Bilbo when he had finally recovered enough to speak.

‘I have…seen a few things that might have opened my eyes to the truth,’ said Thorin. ‘This _is_ about honour, Bilbo – no let, me finish – it’s about honour, but it’s…it’s also about _you_.’

Bilbo was staring at him warily, but he did not try to interrupt.

‘You deserve to live,’ Thorin said, and the words were all but tumbling from him, summoned up from the parts of himself he had tried to thus far lock away, to ignore. The words that he hadn’t had a chance to say, last time. ‘I’ve thought that from the start. But you also…you also mean a great deal to me. Once, I would have considered you as close as my own kin.’

Bilbo remained silent, his eyes over-bright in the ever-changing light.

‘I still…I still do,’ said Thorin, not letting his eyes stray from where they were fixed on Bilbo’s face. ‘Though I know I have all but destroyed our friendship.’

‘The blame for that doesn’t lie with you alone,’ said Bilbo quietly. ‘I was the one that stole the Arkenstone. I was the one who betrayed you to your enemies. _I’m_ the liar and the thief.’

Thorin flinched, hearing the echo of his own words, snarled at Bilbo atop the gates of Erebor.

‘You did it for the right reasons,’ said Thorin at length, finally putting voice to the conclusion he had come to weeks ago. ‘I was deeply hurt, but…now I can clearly see that you were doing it as much for the Company as you were for peace.’

‘Of course it was all for you,’ said Bilbo, ‘and for the Company. I just…I didn’t want anyone to die.’ He looked away briefly, scanning the tree line, and Thorin saw his throat convulse around a swallow. His eyes snapped back to Thorin’s focused and sharp. ‘You’re…you’re free of the gold-lust now, then? You said you could see clearly…’

‘I am,’ said Thorin, thinking with a shudder of revulsion of what he had seen earlier that night. ‘I am as sane as you are, now.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Bilbo with a laugh that was edged with hysteria, ‘I don’t think that’s much better.’

Thorin smiled, although he was certain it turned out to be more like a grimace than anything.

‘What brought you out of it?’ asked Bilbo.

‘The sight of my nephews stretched out on cots, as pale as death,’ said Thorin with brutal honesty.

‘But you said-‘

‘They are both well, I did not lie to you. But they were both injured in the battle. I saw them…I saw them struck down in front of me. They defended me with body and shield, and when I saw them in the aftermath, in the tents of the wounded, I thought…I thought they were dead.’

‘They’re not though, are they?’ said Bilbo, clearly needing further reassurances, despite all that Thorin had said.

‘No. They are alive and well and as bothersome as ever. I can testify to that,’ said Thorin with a small, genuine smile. In the next breath he sobered. ‘But it was the first moment of…clarity that I can remember having since we stepped foot inside of Erebor.’

Looking back on it now, he could remember the way that the gold-lust had crept under his skin and had seeped through his blood like poison, clouding his mind. He hadn’t noticed, at the time, had thought himself merely exhausted and buoyed up by the triumph of reclaiming his home. Now, when he remembered it all, he saw how twisted it had all been, how he had steadily lost inches of himself to madness, and gone to it willingly, not realising that it was bringing out the darkest, vilest parts of his character. The parts of himself that he now held under lock and key.

‘I believe you,’ said Bilbo, drawing him out of his thoughts. ‘Or, at least, I _want_ to believe you.’

The image of Bilbo, his bright blue eyes full of worry and fear, flashed to the forefront of Thorin’s mind. He wondered, bleakly, at what point Bilbo had stopped believing in him back in Erebor’s Halls. At what point during the whole sorry tale had he started to fear Thorin to such an extent that he was willing to hide Erebor’s greatest treasure from its King?

‘Even that is more than I deserve,’ said Thorin.

‘Sane or not, I still want you to turn back,’ Bilbo said, ‘I can only make out half of what’s happening to you, but even that’s bad enough. Did something happen to Fíli?’

‘It did. There are…nightmares plaguing us at every turn. It’s the only way I can describe them.’

Bilbo groaned and ran a hand through his hair, his frustration almost palpable as he started to pace. ‘That’s exactly what I mean, Thorin! And don’t you think it’s just going to get _worse_ the further in you go?’His mouth twisted unhappily. ‘I can’t…I can’t help you. All I can do is watch.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Thorin, ‘truly I am. But you must know that once a Dwarf sets his mind to something, he will not be easily dissuaded from it.’

‘Oh, I know that. I know that only too well. And you’re the worst of the lot,’ said Bilbo, jabbing his finger to emphasise his point.

‘You haven’t yet met my sister,’ said Thorin mildly, and Bilbo snorted at this. ‘In fact,’ Thorin went on, ‘I intend to see you introduced to her, once we’ve brought you back.’

Bilbo stilled, his eyes fixing on Thorin once more. There was that soft look again, the very same one that Thorin had seen in Laketown. It made his heart ache now as it did then, but he still refused to look too closely at it.

‘Don’t promise anything,’ said Bilbo with sudden urgency. ‘Don’t promise me anything, Thorin,’ he said, almost pleading.

‘What did I say about trying to argue with a Dwarf that’s made up his mind?’ said Thorin.

‘Listen to me, you stubborn idiot-‘

‘I will come for you, Bilbo,’ said Thorin, cutting him off. ‘Wherever you are, we will find you, and we will bring you home.’

Their surroundings were fading. Bilbo was fading from his sight. In the moment before the dream ended, Thorin fixed the image of Bilbo, smiling softly and sadly and bathed in the light of the dream world, in his mind. When he woke, it was the first thing he recalled.

 

 

 

If they had been mentally exhausted the previous evening, then there was no term they could now use for their state upon waking. Clearly, none of them had slept well, and even the couple of hours Thorin must have snatched while talking to Bilbo hadn’t curbed his tiredness in the slightest.

Groggy and heavy limbed, they got to their feet, going about their morning rituals quietly. Thorin thought about bringing up what had happened to Kíli, to reassure his nephew just as he had Bilbo that he was no longer gold-mad, but he feared that recalling the incident would lead to questions about his own troubling visions.

None of it made sense, thought Thorin as they walked in eerie silence that was not even broken by Nârù and Lukhudith’s usual squabbling. At first, it had seemed as though the visions were concentrated around Bilbo, but what had happened last night put that idea firmly to rest. The hobbit had not been present for that little display of Thorin deep in the throes of gold-lust. 

It was all too random for Thorin’s liking, and he struggled to stubbornly ascribe some sort of reasoning to the entire thing. Why show them Bilbo defending Thorin, and why follow it in quick succession with a relatively peaceful moment in Laketown? He wouldn’t put it past the fog to be half-sentient, conjuring up past slivers of time to unnerve him. Thorin shook his head. No, there had to be an order to it.

His hand, of its own accord, had found its way into his coat pocket, and now held the bead that Bilbo had gifted to him. Thorin rubbed the pad of his thumb over the raised metal of the acorn, recalling the way that Bilbo had been so nervous about the whole thing. Thorin realised, belatedly, that Bilbo had only given a gift to _him_ \- no one else. Not even Bofur, one of Bilbo’s closest friends, not even Kíli and Fíli, who Thorin knew Bilbo loved as dearly as if they were his own nephews. And then there was that look, twice seen in the space of a day, the one that Thorin had not dared analyse too closely for fear of…what, exactly?

 _‘Of course it was for you,’_ Bilbo had said just hours ago.

The revelation came to him slowly, and it was coupled with horror so deep and profound that he and Khael stopped dead in their tracks.

‘Thorin?’ said Kíli cautiously, ‘what’s wrong?’

‘What is it?’ said Lukhudith.

Thorin passed a hand over his eyes, pressing his fingers into his forehead. Khael, in as much distress as he was, let out a short, mournful howl that travelled out over the accursed marshes.

He had been wilfully blind not once, but _twice_ in his lifetime, and in both instances he had done Bilbo great harm. The first was choosing to ignore the gold-lust that had crept over his heart and obscured his sight. The second time was not seeing _this_.

Because if Thorin was right, and Bilbo was in love with him, then that made what had happened atop the gates of Erebor a thousand, thousand times worse.

 

 

 

Kíli and Fíli were worried, Thorin knew, but he could not bring himself to care. He spent the rest of the day wrapped up in this new revelation, cursing himself and drowning in guilt. Khael, in a fit of self-flagellation, kept ranging further and further from Thorin’s side, stretching the limits of how far they could be parted, but when Thorin felt the awful wrench on his very soul when she strayed too far, he did not beseech her to return, nor did he make any attempt to close the gap.

It was a weary and disillusioned company that finally settled down to rest that night. Fíli was torn between conversing with Kíli in low tones and attempting to draw a single word out of Thorin. Distantly, through his cloud of self-hatred, Thorin pitied him; not only was Fíli having to deal with his brother who had apparently lost his usual brightness and ever-present optimism, but now Thorin was seemingly lost to him, too. Lukhudtih attempted to bait Nârù into a game of tag, but the daemon was having none of it; she curled up into a tight ball, and refused to raise her head from where it lay on Kíli’s thigh.

‘You all look so very lost,’ said a voice.

Fíli was the only one of their sorry group to gasp and leap upright, swords in hand. He relaxed only slightly when he saw the speaker.

The spectre had returned, and she was greatly changed since the last time she and Thorin had spoken. Her dress was now a solid grey-blue in stark contrast to her pale skin. It was no longer ragged at the edges, and neither did it hang awkwardly from her starved frame – her figure was still painfully thin, but she no longer looked to be on the very brink of death.

‘You’ve come back,’ said Fíli.

‘I have,’ she said. ‘As I told your Uncle, I may come and go as I please, and I wished to see how you were faring.’

Fíli shot a look at Thorin, but Thorin didn’t bother to answer the unaired question. He couldn’t summon up the energy to open his mouth and say that he and the ghost had had a second meeting, back in the tunnels. It all seemed like too much effort.

‘Not well, it seems,’ she said, stepping in closer to their camp, her sharp eyes taking them in. ‘I warned you this path would be fraught with nightmares.’

‘I think we’re beginning to understand that,’ said Kíli from where he was sat hunched up on himself, his voice so quiet Thorin almost didn’t catch it.

‘Do you enjoy this?’ hissed Fíli, ‘watching us walk this road?’

‘It does not bring me pleasure to know that you are suffering,’ said the woman, and there was steel in her words. ‘When will any of you begin to see that I am only trying to _help_ you?’

‘When you give us some answers,’ said Thorin, finally summoning up the strength to speak.

‘There’s no rhyme or reason to these trials,’ Fíli said, ‘not even in the order they appear in. And yet each of them seems almost tailored to our…our experiences.’

‘You give the path too much credit,’ she said, ‘it is merely a tool. There is no mind at work here, no greater power deciding what will befall you next.’

‘Then how does it _work_?’ said Lukhudith, at the end of her patience.

‘I will tell you,’ said the spectre. Her hair was so white, her skin so devoid of colour, that when she moved she appeared to be as mist personified. Her feet barely seemed to touch the grass when she stalked forwards to look at each of them in turn.

‘The path will reveal certain things to you. It will use them against you,’ she said softly. ‘It will take your deepest, darkest fears and bring them to light for you to confront. It will look into you and see emotions and memories that you have chosen to lock away and place them before you in whatever way it can.’ Her eyes alighted on Thorin as she said this, and he found that he couldn’t meet her look.

‘You must overcome them to reach the end,’ she said, ‘your greatest obstacle on this path that you have chosen is _yourself_.’

‘How far along are we?’ said Fíli into the ensuing hush, ‘how much more is there to come?’

‘How wide is the sky above?’ she said, ‘I do not know, Fíli. I cannot answer that. The length of the path depends on the hearts of the walkers. It is however long you make it.’

‘Riddles again,’ spat Kíli tiredly, ‘just when I thought we were getting some answers.’

‘You will understand, at the end,’ said the spirit, and her words held a promise that Thorin did not like one bit. A hint of foreboding stirred in his gut.

‘You’re changing,’ Thorin said, directing her attention away from Kíli. ‘Each time I see you, your appearance changes. Why?’

‘Because _you_ are,’ she said simply. Her chapped lips stretched and creased her cheeks in something approaching a smile.

‘What does that _mean_?’ snapped Thorin.

Her smile became tinged with sadness. ‘This is one secret I will not speak of. I wish you luck,’ she said, ‘stay strong. Do not falter.’

And without a word more and deaf to all of Fíli’s pleas for her to stay, she turned and melted back into the fog.

‘How much further is it, do you think?’ said Lukhudith a few minutes later, when it was clear that she would not be returning.

‘I don’t know, Luk,’ said Fíli, stroking one of her ears lightly. ‘But I do know we have to keep going.’ He glanced at the silent forms of his brother and his Uncle. ‘We just have to keep going.’

 

 

 

Thorin would have welcomed sleep that night, if only to escape the black guilt that ate at him every waking hour. He had thought that had put this loathing behind him – Erebor needed a King, after all, and he had had little time for crippling guilt when there was so much to attend to. But now, in the light of his new discovery, it had all come rushing back. He was deeply thankful that Khael had decided to return to his side, as stroking an idle hand through her fur was the only comfort he could allow himself at the present moment.

He had no idea what hour of the night it was. All Dwarves tended to have a good sense of time without the need for a water clock or sundial, but his was in complete disarray. He was counting the hours instead by the soft snores of his nephews, and the subtle shifting of the fog around them.

‘ _Brother_ ,’ whispered a voice on the still air.

Thorin turned his head this way and that, remembering only too well what had happened the previous night. He would not fall for the same trick again.

‘It is not you,’ said Thorin, ‘as much as I wish it was, it is _not you_.’

‘Thorin,’ said Frerin, and there he was, standing before Thorin again.

Gone was the child. In his place stood the battle-scarred, the bloody Frerin. The Frerin who had died in the Battle of Azanulbizar.

‘ _No_ ,’ moaned Thorin, ‘please, not again.’

‘You promised,’ said Frerin, uncaring as to the distress he was causing. ‘You promised, brother.’

Thorin rose to his feet unsteadily.

‘You _promised_ you wouldn’t,’ hissed Frerin, his eyes narrowed in accusation, a sneer lifting one side of his bloody mouth.

‘I know,’ said Thorin, taking a few steps forwards, ‘I _know_.’

His brother shook his head, and his half-burnt braids shifted a little with the movement. He seemed very far away, to Thorin. Thorin stepped forwards again, but it made no difference.

‘Do you remember?’ he said, ‘have you forgotten what you said that day, in Ered Luin?’

‘I haven’t forgotten, Frerin,’ Thorin said around a sob, stretching out an arm, pointless though he knew it was, ‘I would never forget.’

‘You swore to me that you wouldn’t get sick,’ said Frerin, and there was fury and childish petulance all mixed up in his voice. ‘You said that you wouldn’t let yourself become what grandfather became.’

‘I’m _so sorry_ ,’ said Thorin. His vision was becoming blurry, and when Frerin spoke next, his sounded as though he were a thousand miles away.

‘I’ll _never_ forgive you,’ he said

Thorin’s limbs felt oddly light. His lips wet, but he hadn’t licked them, and there was a pressure on his open eyes, on his chest. It was dark – had it always been so dark? Where was the light? He opened his mouth to call to Frerin one last time and found it suddenly flooded with water, water that ran down his throat and cut off his air. He gasped for breath, clutching at his throat, intensely aware that he was falling slowly down into the dark, weighed down by his clothes and his armour, his mind ablaze with panic and sheer white terror. The water pressed in on all sides, and this wasn’t a dream, this was real, he was going to drown here and never earn the chance to ask for Bilbo’s forgiveness-

A strong hand gripped his shoulder, halting his descent. Another gripped at the back of his shirt and he was borne up, back towards the light in a rush of colour.

Thorin broke the surface. He gasped and strained for air around the water still lodged in his mouth and throat. Someone hauled him bodily up and towards land, and he clung to it desperately, half-in, half-out of the water, fighting to take a proper breath. A hand hit him square in the back, the blow so hard that he vomited water onto the long grass. Finally, he could breathe again.

Before he could begin to come to terms with what had happened or take more than two full breaths, he was reaching blindly for Khael. She came to him gladly, pressing into his shoulder with so much force that she would have knocked him back into the water, had it not been for Kíli and Fíli’s hands on his back, making sure that he stayed firmly in place.

Khael’s solid warmth helped to steady him, to reassert some order into the world. For a while no one said anything, and the air was filled with the sounds of them all trying to catch their breath, and Khael’s grateful whimpering. 

Kíli heaved himself out of the water and onto the bank. Thorin glanced up at him through his curtain of hair and saw that his nephew had half turned away, one shaking hand pressed to his mouth. Fíli soon did the same, and together, they helped Thorin out of the water.

‘Can you please,’ said Kíli after a while, ‘ _please_ not do that again?’

‘Agreed,’ said Fíli.

‘I don’t like this world,’ said Lukhudith from under Fíli’s arm.

‘No,’ Thorin said around a heaving breath, ‘neither do I.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I promise they'll be moving on to another world next chapter!)


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally supposed to be all one chapter, but I think that breaking it into two chapters works far better in terms of pacing (and in terms of the word count). This also means that it shouldn't take much longer to get the next bit out - by the end of the week, maybe!

After they had each caught their breath and wrung the excess water from their clothes, their exit was revealed to them. The fog swirled and reformed into the shape of an archway in the middle of the marsh, a patch of darkness formed out of thin air, edged in white mist. The sight of it was greeted by a weary cheer from Kíli, who was still trying to gather up his hastily-discarded coat and under jacket. Thorin unwound his hands from Khael’s fur and raised his forehead from where it had been pressed into the side of the neck. There was no hint of what lay beyond the archway, no guarantee that the next world would be any better than this one, but he was sick of the fog and the eerie water, and most of all he was sick the visions that plagued them at every turn, and eager for change, in whatever form that change would take. He rose to his feet on shaky legs; Fíli hovered close to his elbow, but Thorin ignored him, determined that he show his worried nephews that he was fully recovered.

‘Let’s see where the path leads,’ he said tiredly. There was no question that they all wanted to move on, as exhausted as they were.

‘Thorin,’ said Fíli, causing Thorin to pause, ‘what did you see?’

Kíli and Nârù raised their heads from where Kíli was lacing his boots up, shocked that Fíli had had the nerve to ask.

‘A ghost,’ said Thorin. He felt as though he owed them this much after they had saved his life.

‘Was it…was it our Uncle?’ hazarded Kíli.

‘Yes,’ confirmed Thorin, ‘or that’s how he appeared, at least. A spectre conjured up by these cursed mists. I must have been dreaming, or sleepwalking.’

‘What was he,’ started Fíli, and then stopped abruptly.

It was endlessly painful to even think about Frerin after the nightmare he had just endured, but regret beat at his back and spurred him into opening his mouth to answer Fíli’s half-question; he had been remiss in telling them about their Uncle all these years, and they had never once asked after him. Thorin was almost certain that he had never said Frerin’s name aloud in their company.

‘He was golden-haired, like you, Fíli,’ said Thorin, ‘though his braids were never as neat. He was always so _messy_. Our mother was constantly chasing him around, trying to straighten his clothes and his hair.’ Thorin smiled and found that the expression came to him naturally, and that he did not have to force it. ‘He was endlessly curious and a terrible prankster, slow to anger, quick to smile. He would have loved both of you fiercely, and spoilt you rotten, had he lived to meet you.’

He looked to both of them and found their eyes bright and sharp with sadness, Kíli staring out into the distance, Fíli’s gaze never wavering from Thorin as his Uncle spoke.

‘And he would have been very proud of the both of you,’ said Thorin, ‘just as I am.’

Kíli’s head snapped back to stare at him, expression proud and vulnerable all at once. Thorin held their gazes for a moment, before turning away. He wondered briefly what Frerin’s daemon would have been. Another wolf? It certainly appeared to run in the family. Or perhaps a crow, to suit his cheeky nature? Thorin shook his head – it didn’t matter now. They had other things to think about.

‘Come,’ he said, ‘let’s see where the path leads.’

 

 

 

A bright blue sky above a snow-covered landscape lay beyond the archway – not the best of places to be dropped into when they were all drenched through. A rough pathway, half-obscured by snow, stretched out before them, running along the edge of a forest that lay to their right. There were no signs of any settlements or houses, and so they attended to the practicalities first – building a fire. Kíli had been spared a complete soaking because he had been half-undressed for bed before he had plunged head-first into the water to save Thorin, and so he quickly gathered up what dry firewood he could find from the forest floor while Fíli and Thorin cleared a small space of snow. It was hard work, but they were still shivering by the end of it, and were each infinitely grateful when Fíli managed to get a fire going.

Their hunger was returning to them tenfold and Thorin, especially, was keenly aware that he had not eaten a great deal in the last world. If they came across food in this one, then he was determined to make the most of it, and eat enough to impress even a hobbit.

‘Where do you think we are?’ said Lukhudtih when they were all warm, ‘I don’t recognise the landscape.’

‘We have a path,’ said Thorin, ‘it’s well-worn – if we’re in luck, then it means it’s frequently used and there’ll be something at the end of it. We may as well see where it leads.’

‘Hopefully it leads to food,’ said Fíli, putting Thorin’s thoughts into words.

‘I wonder what this world’s like,’ Kíli said, ‘the last one was so _strange_.’

‘I’d settle for strange over dangerous any day,’ said his brother, ‘as uncomfortable as it might have been pretending to be friends with _Elves_ , at least they meant us no harm. We could have easily been dropped in the middle of that terrible plague to the South.’

‘Dine with Thranduil or be beset by an incurable disease,’ Thorin said dryly, pretending to consider it, ‘I am still not sure which I would have chosen, had I been given the choice.’

That coaxed a small chuckle from Kíli and a smile from Fíli, lifting some of the heaviness from their expressions.They rose a short while later; a quick glance at the sun confirmed that it was almost midday here, and if they set off now, then there was a chance that they might find shelter before nightfall. Thorin did not like their chances if they were forced to camp outside in these temperatures.

The path soon parted from the shadow of the forest to lead them on through gentle rolling hills, the landscape empty and endlessly white, with few landmarks beyond the odd stream or an old stone shelter, long since abandoned.

‘This looks familiar,’ said Fíli as they walked, ‘though I’m sure I’ve never walked this particular path before. But the way the land falls – it reminds me of the Shire.’

‘The Shire?’ snorted Kíli in disbelief, ‘how can you tell under all this snow? We could be anywhere.’

‘It’s just a feeling,’ said Fíli, with a shrug, ‘I know we weren’t there for long, but I do remember how…how easy the road was.’

‘I bet you ten gold coins that you’re wrong,’ said Kíli.

Thorin sent him a look that was all raised eyebrows and bemusement. ‘Kíli, you can now lay claim to one fourteenth of Erebor’s gold,’ he reminded his nephew, ‘I don’t think ten gold coins is much of a bet.’

‘Oh,’ said Kíli, ‘oh yes, I’d forgotten.’ He was quiet for a moment before brightening and saying, ‘alright, then. Loser has to tell mother that we rushed headfirst into this adventure without a second thought, potentially leaving Erebor Kingless.’

A look of pure horror passed over Fíli’s face. He glanced around them at the landscape, weighing up the bet, making sure his assertion was correct. ‘No,’ he said firmly, straightening his shoulders, ‘I am sure. You’re on, little brother.’

They shook hands on it grimly. Thorin, thoroughly amused, shook his head, marvelling at their resilience and how easily they bounced back from hardship. He feared that they would need that quality, before they reached their journey’s end.

He was certain that, wherever they were and wherever they were going, they were heading in the right direction. The little tug in his chest that had lead them this far seemed satisfied by their chosen route, and as they walked the lands around them began to change from undulating hills to what appeared to be farmland, divided into a patchwork of neat squares by hedges and walls. There were still no sign of life, and they passed no one on the road.

Thorin’s mind kept wandering back to the subject of Bilbo’s feelings for him, in spite of his best efforts to keep himself focused on the road. He had no idea how he had been so blind to it all, though he reminded himself that he had been so intent on reclaiming Erebor that little else had entered into his mind. Excuses aside, it was causing Thorin to look back at their friendship in a whole new light. At what point had Bilbo started to fall for him? Thorin’s empty stomach churned and rolled; he dearly hoped that Bilbo had not begun to fall in love with him in the early stages of their journey – that was another burden of guilt to add to his already heavy heart.

Sometime after noon they happened upon a small group of sheep in the middle of the path. The sheep, upon seeing  and smelling their wolves, started to bleat in earnest, the whole group moving as one to clear the path with the single-mindedness of herd animals. Within moments of the dwarves turning the corner, the sheep had all made the small jump onto the ledge that bordered the path, eager to be away from their natural predators.

‘Did they escape from their field?’ said Nârù. Unlike a real wolf, which would have surely bolted after such easy prey in the first instance, Nârù was completely disinterested in them beyond their presence on the path.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Kíli, ‘there doesn’t seem to be a shepherd about.’

‘Or anyone at all,’ muttered Fíli with a frown, ‘I know Hobbits don’t tend to show themselves to outsiders, but if we _are_ in the Shire, then I would have expected to have seen someone, by now. We did last time, didn’t we Kíli?’

‘We did. Farmers and merchants, mostly. I’ll never forget the scandalised looks they gave us when we passed them on the road.’

Thorin looked to Khael, who was a little way down the path, watching the retreating sheep. She met his look, and the quiet seemed to press in on them on all sides.

They carried on at Thorin’s urging. His fingers tapped out a beat on the top of the axe strapped to his hip as they walked, and a casual observer of the group would think them completely at ease and off-guard, but in reality they were each as tense as a bowstring, casting out wary glances with every step they took.

The open grass lands remained empty, and before long the snow started to peter out, turning to mush and then disappearing altogether, revealing a landscape deep in the grips of winter, painted in shades of brown and washed-out green. The fields stood empty in row upon row of brown, tilled earth, ready to be sowed when spring came. If it had not been for the sheep and the constant ache of hunger, Thorin would have thought them in another transitionary world.

They happened upon an old signpost when their path joined another. It was stood half-hidden under a bundle of vines and vegetation, and when Thorin tugged the greenery out of the way, the words, ‘Hobbiton, 3 miles’ could just be made out on the weather worn wood, with a crude arrow pointing the way. The confirmation that they were in the Shire brought little joy to their hearts, and no mention of the bet was made. Instead, their attention was quickly diverted to Nârù, who stood sniffing the air.

‘I can smell something,’ she said, ‘something rotten.’ She trotted forwards a few feet and put her paws up on the nearest hedge, looking over it into the field that it bordered. ‘Thought so. There’s a dead cow over here.’

Kíli came to take a look, grimacing at what he saw. ‘Looks like it’s been half-chewed out by something,’ he said.

‘That doesn’t look like the work of a wolf,’ said Fíli with a frown, ‘it’s too pointless. Whatever killed it took a bite out of its side and got bored. Half the carcass has been left behind.’

‘Wargs?’ posited Kíli.

‘I’d say so. Just the one, maybe.’

Thorin was only half-paying attention to their conversation. Khael had let out a low warning bark and was intently focused on the far horizon, where the path crested up and over a hill.

‘Fíli,’ said Lukhudith from where she stood next to Khael. ‘Fíli, there’s black smoke in the distance.’

Fíli didn’t even ask her if she was sure. He looked to Thorin, who only had to nod once to convey his decision. They picked up their pace, settling at a half-run down the winding path, their wolves leading the way in great easy strides, Khael on point. Within the space of a mile the path had joined a wide cobbled road, and the stomp of their heavy boots was far too loud against the stone. Another half a mile, and they could see the smoke, a thin trail of it winding its way up into the grey sky.

They spotted the first hint of settlement – a walled garden so overgrown with vegetation that it half-hid a small yellow round door. It was clearly a hobbit home, with its circular windows and the way that it was half-built into the side of the hill. Kíli drew up short as they made to run past it, staring at the front of the house.

‘Kíli-‘

‘The windows have been smashed, look,’ said Kíli before he could be berated for stopping.

He was right – the broken edges of the glass glinted in the weak sunlight, and Thorin saw that a wicker basket full of garden tools had been turned over in the front garden, its contents scattered over the short path that lead to the door.

‘Hello?’ called out Kíli cautiously, but there was no reply.

‘I smell…I smell orcs,’ said Lukhudith, all but trembling with tension. The confirmation set Thorin’s heart hammering with fear.

‘Come on,’ he said, turning him away from the house, ‘let’s find Bilbo, as quickly as we can.’

They had another hill to climb, and whatever lay beyond was lost to them until they reached the top. The plume of smoke they had sighted had thickened, and what had formerly been a small streak in the distance had transformed into a column of smoke, pouring into the cloudy sky. With a stab of fear Thorin thought of Bag End alight, and all but broke out into a sprint, Khael matching his change of pace.

Thorin reached the top of the hill first, and what he saw there caused him to freeze in place.

The peaceful town of Hobbiton lay in ruins. The neat rows of houses and gardens had been destroyed, trampled on, walls knocked over, flames curling unchecked through gardens, greedily eating its way through flowers and ferns and vegetable patches. In the distance, over the river, the mill was revealed to be the source of the smoke, fire licking from its windows, staining the stone black.

There was not a single sign of life.

‘Mahal, _no_ ,’ breathed Fíli.

Thorin wrenched his eyes away. They had come into Hobbiton by Bagshot Row – he remembered the hill and the oak tree that sat atop it, and both now lay before them. Bilbo’s house should - if memory served him rightly - be just around the bend in the path. He burst forward, mind blank of all thought beyond the need to see Bag End, to see Bilbo, to know that he was alright. The road curved and turned, and a ravaged garden came into sight, blackened and burnt, nothing left but ash and the broken woody stems of the bushes that had once flourished under Bilbo’s hand. Thorin’s eye was drawn to the little wooden gate, which was swinging back and forth in the breeze, the metal whining faintly, and his eyes dragged up and up, over the small path, coming to rest on the round green door.

The door stood half-open. Its green paint was scratched and marred, the wood gouged deeply by some sharp edge. Thorin barely felt his feet touch the steps that lead up to Bilbo’s home – within an instant his hand was upon the door, pushing it all the way open.

‘Bilbo!’ he shouted down the hallway, throwing all caution to the wind, ‘ _Bilbo_!’

His breath stuttered in his throat; the hallway was in complete disarray, paper scattered everywhere, fluttering across the floor when he opened the door and let the breeze in. Thorin remembered enough of their night in Bag End to recall that Bilbo had kept his possessions neat and tidy – there was no sign of that now. Shards of glass glittered at the far end of the hallway, and even from where he stood Thorin could see books scattered over the floor, their spines broken and pages torn.

He and Khael barely paused to take it all in – they tore forwards, down the passageway, Thorin calling Bilbo’s name all the while, breathless with anger and fear. There were more signs of destruction around the corner, and no one replied to his call. Khael was all focus and intent, prowling through the interlinked rooms, dragging in air through her nose as she went. Thorin flung open doors as he walked, finding bedroom after bedroom – all empty.

‘Thorin!’ called Fíli, and the urgency in his voice reached Thorin through the rising tide of fear that was fogging his mind.

He and Lukhudith were still stood in the passageway, and Thorin was about to snarl at him to get moving and search for Bilbo when he saw the horror in Fíli’s eyes and the way that his face had drained of all colour.

‘What is it?’

‘Look,’ said Fíli, pointing to the floor at his feet, ‘Thorin. That’s not orc blood.’

On the polished wooden floors was a smear of something dark, half-dried and flaking, but here was no mistaking the colour.

‘And look, here,’ Fíli said, putting a hand to Thorin’s shoulder, physically directing his gaze away from the blood – _Bilbo_ ’s blood. Fíli gestured to the walls of the hallway, brushing his fingers just below a few scratches that had been scored into the wood.

‘The scratches don’t look like they’ve been made by any weapon. There’s blood here, too, and the way that they’re shaped…Thorin, I think Bilbo was dragged from here by force.’

‘Signs of a fight in the living room,’ said Kíli, appearing from around the corner with Nârù, ‘There’s orc blood _everywhere_ , all over the carpet and floor.’

‘There’s more blood down the hall,’ said Fíli, ‘some of it black, some red.’ He looked to his brother, voice tight with tension. ‘He’s been taken,’ he said, saying aloud what they were all thinking. ‘He put up one hell of a fight, but they got him anyway.’

‘He might still be alive,’ said Kíli, but Thorin barely heard him.

 _He’s been taken_. The words rang in his ears like the echoing of a bell, continuous, circular. He strode back to the doorway and paused on the threshold, looking out over the ruined town. He could feel Khael’s fury like it was a physical thing – her flanks were almost shaking with it, and his hands opened and closed with the need to do something, _anything_ , to tear apart the whole Shire in his search for Bilbo.

He grappled with the churning fury in his gut. He needed to be clear-headed. He needed to be able to think.

‘Search the rest of the town,’ he said to Kíli and Fíli, ‘there might be survivors. If this is the work of _orcs_ ,’ he hissed, ‘then we need to know which direction they’ve headed.’

‘We ought to stay close,’ said Fíli, and though Thorin railed against the idea, for it would certainly slow their search down, common sense prevailed. Fili was right - there might still be orcs lurking amongst the destruction.

They took it row by row, checking each house they passed, keeping their voices low and their hands close to their weapons. They found no survivors – dead or alive – in the first few houses, but on their fifth house, in a far less grand smial than Bilbo’s, Kíli found a hobbit lying on his back, half-curled up in his doorway. The hobbit’s eyes stared sightlessly into his garden, one hand flung out and curled around a gardening fork, the tines of which had been sharpened to wicked points. Once glance at the hobbit’s stomach confirmed that a stab wound had taken his life, staining his white shirt red with blood. There was no time to bury him, but Kíli took a moment to close his eyes, and Fíli gently murmured, ‘ _may you find your way home_ ’, in Khuzdûl.

The road ahead banked sharply to the left, curving back on itself as it made its winding way down the hill. As Thorin neared the turn, he sensed – rather than saw – Khael seize up.

He gestured to Kíli and Fíli behind him in Iglishmêk. ‘Keep down, keep quiet,’ he signed, ‘enemies ahead.’

They crept forward, using the wall and the bank of the smial to shield them. Soon they could hear low voices, the pitch and tone unmistakable, though they could not make out any individual words. Orcs.

‘Three?’ signed Fíli.

‘Maybe four,’ Kíli signed in response.

‘I’ll take a look,’ Thorin said, hands flashing through the signs before coming to rest on the hilt of Orcrist.

He edged forwards slowly, cautiously, Khael hanging back. The smell hit him first – the rank stench of something cooking, and of the orcs themselves. There was a cruel burst of laughter, sputtered out, and Thorin dared to take another step and look beyond the curve of the hill.

An orcish camp lay beyond, just off the road, settled below the boughs of an oak tree. Three of them were huddled around a campfire, a fourth was stood up and – Thorin’s gut curled in revulsion and anger. The orcs had strung up a hobbit by his feet from one of the branches of the tree. His hands were bound, his face and clothes covered in equal parts blood and dirt. Thorin couldn’t tell if he was alive or not, but this was quickly confirmed for him when the fourth orc took a long piece of metal from the fire and put it to the hobbit’s exposed stomach. The resulting scream echoed out over the empty hills, underpinned with the sound of more harsh laughter.

Thorin stepped back, turning to Kíli and Fíli, whose faces were ashen and hard with anger.

‘They have a prisoner,’ signed Thorin, ‘one hobbit, strung up by a rope.’

‘Is it Bilbo?’ said Fíli.

Thorin shook his head. He had seen the hobbit’s dark head of curls – too dark to be Bilbo’s hair.

‘How are we doing this?’ said Kíli, still conversing in Iglishmêk.

‘There’s an orc stood up by the hobbit,’ Thorin said, ‘you’ll need to kill him first, Kíli. Fíli, Lukhudith, Khael and I will rush the rest. You can cover us, Kíli, but I’m sure we can take three orcs.’

They nodded their understanding to him. Kíli swapped places with Thorin, smoothly freeing an arrow from his quiver and taking up his bow. He stepped forward, his footsteps barely making a sound, moving around the bend, pulling the arrow back to full draw. The orcs were so intent on their prey that they did not notice Kíli darting out onto the path, stance firm, loosening the arrow with grim satisfaction.

As soon as Kíli’s hand left the arrow, Thorin burst from their cover, Orcrist unsheathed, a battle-cry on his lips, Khael matching him step for step. Kíli’s arrow had found its mark – the orc toppled to the ground, clutching at its throat, the hot poker tumbling from its lifeless fingers. The other three started to rise from their seats, hands going to weapons, mouths curling around snarls, but it was too late – Khael was already upon them, Lukhudith following in her wake. In three great bounds Khael covered the distance to their camp, leaping on the nearest orc, her powerful jaws closing around his throat. Orcrist met the swing of another’s sword, parrying it easily, leaving the orc’s side exposed. Thorin took full advantage of the orc’s lowered guard, plunging Orcrist into its chest. Thorin turned, searching for another foe, but Fíli had already done the work for him, and was busy separating the head of the third orc from its shoulders.

Orc cries rent the air, and then were no more. In the space of just a few seconds, the camp lay dead. Khael and Lukhidth continued to snarl, not satisfied with such an easy kill, the fronts of their beautiful coats of fur and their mouths stained with black orcish blood.

Thorin heard the hobbit whimper, and the sound of it cooled his bloodlust slightly. Putting aside their weapons for a moment, they scrambled to help the hobbit; Fíli half-climbed up the trunk of the tree to cut the rope, while Thorin and Kíli  took him gently by the shoulders and eased him down to the ground.

The hobbit’s dark eyes were wide with fear, and his whole body was shaking. The skin of his face and arms was marred with scratches and bruises, but aside from the terrible burn on his stomach, he had not suffered any grievous wounds.

‘I’ll get water,’ said Kíli, darting off in the direction of the river.

‘Be careful!’ Thorin called after him reflexively.

Lukhudith and Khael hung back, not wanting to frighten the hobbit further. Fíli drew out a short knife to cut the bonds that held the hobbit's wrists together, but at the sight of the blade, the hobbit groaned and tried to move away as best he could with his feet still tied together.

‘It’s alright,’ said Fíli soothingly, ‘you’re alright. I’m not going to hurt you.’ He repeated these platitudes twice more before his voice seemed to seep through the hobbit’s overwhelming terror, and he stopped trying to twist away from the knife. ‘We want to help you. Look - I’m just going to cut you free.’

Ever-so-slowly, he moved the knife to the hobbit’s hands and cut through the ropes, the hobbit’s eyes watching every inch of movement. Once the hobbit’s hands were free, Fíli moved to his feet, cutting away the last of the rope that held him in place.

Kíli returned with his canteen full of water, and there was a story in the grim line of his mouth and the hardness of his eyes, but there were other things to attend to first. Thorin took the offered canteen and said, ‘I’m sorry, but this is going to hurt. But we _have_ to cool your burn down. Are you ready?’

The hobbit looked far from ready, but he gave a shaky nod. ‘Do it,’ he said with a lick of his lips, his voice rasping, raw from screaming.

Fíli and Kíli held onto the hobbit’s shoulders as Thorin poured out the water. The hobbit screamed and thrashed, fighting their hold weakly, and by the time the canteen was empty of water, he had subsided into broken sobs.

Kíli took back the empty container and went to refill it. As awful as it was, they each knew that such a serious burn had to be properly cooled.

The hobbit covered his eyes with one forearm, and Thorin let him take a moment to gather himself. They carefully eased him into a sitting position, and he gasped at the movement but did not ask them to stop.For a few long moments they were silent save for the hobbit’s pained panting. Kíli appeared again with more water, and the hobbit all but sobbed at the sight of it.

‘No, please, _no_ ,’ he moaned, batting the canteen away with weak hands.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Fíli, expression wretched, taking a hold of the hobbit’s arms again, ‘but we _must_ do this.’

Water hit skin, and another scream was torn from his throat, though this time Thorin could clearly see him trying to bite back the pain. Again, Kíli went to refill the canteen, and the hobbit took great gulps of air, wrestling with his pain. Tears leaked from the corner of his eyes, and he half-turned away from them, his face a picture of pure anguish.

The need to know the truth of what had happened in Hobbiton - what had happened to _Bilbo_ \- beat at the back of Thorin’s skull, but compassion won out over impatience.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Thorin gently. Fíli was running a soothing hand up and down the hobbit’s back, but he barely seemed to notice the calming touch.

‘Drogo…Drogo Baggins,’ said the hobbit, and Thorin’s heart skipped a beat.

‘Baggins?’ he said in a rush, ‘are you related to Bilbo Baggins?’

‘He’s my…he’s my…’

But Kíli had returned with water again, and Thorin had to wait for the whole process to be repeated before he had his answer. Drogo’s cries were not as gut-wrenching, this time – the water clearly doing its work, as painful as it must be - and he was soon able to speak again.

‘He’s my second cousin,’ he gasped, eyeing them warily. ‘But how…how do _you_ know him?’

‘We would count Bilbo Baggins as one of our closest friends,’ said Fíli, ‘we could’nt find him at Bag End. What _happened_ here?’

Hesitation was writ all over the hobbit’s young face, and he held his tongue.

‘We’re here to help,’ said Kíli, who had remained with them to hear what Drogo had to say. ‘I swear to you, on the honour of my line, that we hold nothing but goodwill for you and Bilbo both.’

‘Look around you,’ said Thorin with a touch on impatience, ‘four orcs lay dead by our hands. We want for nothing more than to help your second cousin, but to do that you _must_ tell us what happened.’

‘Orcs,’ spat Drogo at last, ‘orcs happened. They…they came at night and took them away. We tried to sound the bell and raise the alarm, but they ambushed us – there was no time to-to-‘ he cut himself off. He looked as though he was choosing his words with great care. ‘There was no time to run away,’ he completed quietly.

‘You said they “took them away”,’ repeated Kíli, ‘what do you mean?’

‘They’re probably in chains, now,’ said Drogo wretchedly. At their questioning looks he continued, ‘slaves. They’ve been taken into slavery.’

Thorin stood up abruptly, clenching his jaw shut so tightly that pain flared over the right side of his face.

‘Which way,’ he said, voice low and grating, ‘which way did they go?’

‘South, as far as I can tell. I was-I was knocked out soon after they came, but I think it’s been about a day since they attacked.

‘How many?’

‘I’m not sure of the exact number, but I know it had to be dozens,’ said Drogo, ‘at least seventy.’

Fíli let out a breath and passed a hand over his mouth, and Thorin could feel his eyes on his back.

‘Uncle, we cannot take on seventy orcs alone,’ he said, ‘we need help.’

‘Orcs?’ Drogo said with a bitter laugh, ‘no, I wasn’t talking about _orcs._ I was talking about hobbits. They took at least seventy hobbits with them.’

‘And…and how many orcs?’ said Kíli, though he seemed afraid to even ask.

Drogo stared at him hopelessly. ‘Hundreds,’ he choked out, ‘ _hundreds_ of them.’

‘Gather your things,’ snapped Thorin to Kíli and Fíli, ‘we’re leaving.’

‘Thorin-‘

‘ _Now_.’

‘This is madness!’ said Fíli, getting to his feet. Regret flashed across his face at his choice of phrase, but when he spoke again his words were calm and steady. ‘We cannot hope to rescue Bilbo alone.’

‘Then what do you suggest, Fíli?’ said Thorin tersely, turning to look at his nephew. ‘We cannot just let them go!’

‘Is there anyone else who might help?’ asked Kíli of Drogo, ‘any Rangers or-‘

‘No,’ said Drogo quickly, ‘as far as I know, the Rangers headed West last winter. They’re too far away to get help from before the orcs reach…wherever it is that they spawn from.’

Fíli’s eyes lowered at this. ‘No one else?’ he said, but Drogo shook his head.

‘We follow them,’ said Thorin, quieter this time, less anger latent in his voice, ‘and if we can, we will rescue Bilbo. He is our _friend_ ,’ he said, looking at Fíli and Kíli in turn, ‘and I refuse to leave him to this fate.’

‘Then we’re with you,’ said Kíli standing beside his brother.

‘Of course we are,’ said Fíli. Caution had given away to grim determination now Fíli knew there would be no help coming from any other quarter. He freed one of his swords from where he had stuck it point-first into the ground, hefting it in hand.

Thorin’s heart lifted. ‘I did not doubt that for a moment,’ he told them quietly.

‘You’re all _mad_ ,’ said Drogo, through his eyes were bright with begrudging respect. ‘Who are you that Bilbo means so much to you? He hasn’t mentioned you _once_ , and I’ve known him all my life.’

‘We are his friends,’ said Thorin, ‘and that is no small thing, for us.’

He straightened and looked around at the ruined landscape.

‘Are there any mounts that we could use?’ he asked of Drogo.

‘There might be,’ said Drogo, ‘if we’re lucky the orcs might not have killed some of farmer Bodo’s horses. They’re probably tethered up in a field not far from here.’

‘Can you stand?’

‘I think so,’ he said, looking pained at even the thought of standing. Fíli and Kíli both moved to help him, and with their support, they got him onto his feet.

‘Good,’ said Thorin, ‘then show us to the horses.’

‘There’s something we have to do first,’ said Kíli, stepping forward and looking at Thorin meaningfully.

‘Kíli, we have no time-‘

‘We have time for this, and I think Bilbo would agree with me,’ said Kíli, his voice firm.

‘What is it?’ asked Fíli.

‘I found something down by the river,’ he replied, glancing at Nârù, who was all but radiating sadness, her head lowered and ears flat, tail close to the ground. ‘I need your help with it.’

‘Alright,’ said Thorin, eyeing them both, ‘as long as we’re quick. Time is short.’

‘This way – Drogo, you might want to stay here,’ said Kíli as the hobbit made to follow.

‘I’m coming with you, if it’s all the same to you.’

‘Drogo, what’s down there isn’t-‘

‘I’m coming with you, whatever it is,’ said Drogo, and there was steel in his voice. He was pale and wobbly on his feet, but he stood straight all the same, and his mouth was set in a firm, stubborn line.

‘If you’re sure,’ said Kíli with great reluctance, brow furrowed, ‘then follow me.’

He led them down a short path to the river. The land was a little flatter, here, and there were two great trees stood not far from the riverbanks, their great branches stretching up into the sky. There was no need for Kíli to point or gesture – as they drew nearer, they could clearly see what had caused Nârù and Kíli such distress.

Three hobbits hung by their necks from the lowest branch of the first tree. Their bare feet dangled mid-air, their bodies swaying ever-so-slightly in the breeze. Thorin faintly heard the sound of Drogo throwing up behind him, and the hobbit’s resulting pained murmurs as the act of vomiting pulled at his injured stomach.

‘We need to get them down,’ said Kíli into the ensuing quiet. ‘We can’t just-just _leave_ them there-‘

Thorin put a hand to his shoulder. ‘Fíli, can you climb up to the branch?’

Fíli gave a short nod and moved away, reaching for the first handhold in the tree’s twisting trunk. They waited for him to climb to the branch, shimmying along until he reached the first rope, and then moved forward to take a hold of the first hobbit’s legs. One by one they eased the bodies to the ground, laying them alongside each other on the riverbank and removing the nooses from around their necks. Two men and one woman, all of them wearing the same thick, padded jackets and what looked like simple leather armour underneath. There was a blue band around each of their upper right arms.

‘Drogo,’ said Kíli to the hobbit, who had stopped vomiting long enough to stand and stare at the fallen hobbits, ‘I’m so sorry. Truly, I am.’

Drogo said nothing, his face devoid of all expression.

‘Did you know them?’

He shook his head silently.

‘They’re all wearing armbands,’ said Fíli when the hobbit did not respond, ‘what does it mean?’

‘They’re Bounders,’ said Drogo distantly, ‘they’re charged with protecting the Shire.’

Thorin let out a long, long breath, his heart full to the brim with aching sadness. Hobbits were a kind and peaceful folk – he was certain of this, as much as he was certain that the Dwarves were Erebor were hardworking and unwaveringly loyal. How in the name of Mahal could this have happened?

‘Drogo, I’m sorry,’ said Thorin, ‘there’s no time to bury them-‘

‘I know,’ said Drogo.

‘We need to catch up with the orcs. If they have a day’s start on us-‘

‘I _know_ ,’ said Drogo again, firmer this time. He had yet to look away from the still forms of the three hobbits.

Thorin hated to persist, but they had no time to grieve, and Drogo was their only hope for having even the slightest chance of catching the orcs – and their slaves.

‘If you are able,’ he said, ‘can you show us to the horses? We will need supplies, too – is there any food that’s not been taken, or ruined?’

At last, Drogo looked away, and when he turned to Thorin his eyes were brimming with unshed tears. But he looked calm, at least, and determined to help them.

‘This way,’ he said.

 

 

 

They were lucky. A quick search of a nearby smial produced nuts and dried fruit, as well as a loaf of dark, sticky bread that Drogo assured them would last the journey. He then lead them to Bodo’s horses, and their luck held; three horses stood tied up in a field, with two more in the field next to them. They were all badly in need of water, which Kíli and Fíli quickly provided, but they would do for the road ahead. Beautifully carved Hobbit saddles were produced from the stables, and Thorin selected the three healthiest, largest mounts to bridle and saddle up. He was just about to mount his own horse when he saw Drogo produce a fourth saddle.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked, although he already knew the answer.

‘Coming with you,’ said Drogo, grunting in pain as he tried to get the saddle on the horse’s back.

‘You’re injured,’ said Fíli, steering his horse around to look at Drogo, ‘you can’t ride like that.’

‘Yes I can,’ said Drogo.

‘You can barely _stand_ , let alone ride,’ said Thorin, putting his foot into his stirrup and swinging himself up and onto his horse’s back.

‘I won’t slow you down,’ said Drogo quickly.

‘Can you fight?’ asked Kíli.

Drogo busied himself with fixing the saddle in place. ‘I was going to become a Bounder, before…before all of this,’ he said, ‘I can fight if you lend me a sword.’

‘Drogo, _stay here_ ,’ Thorin commanded. ‘You’ve done enough.’

‘No, I haven’t!’ Drogo all but shouted, spinning around to pin Thorin with a glare. ‘No, I _haven’t_ ,’ he said again with an angry wave of an arm, ‘my friends are out there, my _family_. Good hobbits who don’t deserve to live the rest of their lives in slavery!’

Then, in a softer tone, he said, ‘they’ve taken Primula.’

The name rang a bell. Thorin wracked his memory, trying to recall where he had heard it before. The image of a young hobbit, dressed in furs and weighing him up with sharp blue eyes, flashed into his mind.

‘Your wife?’ said Kíli.

‘One day I hope so,’ said Drogo quietly. He gathered himself visibly and squared his shoulders, giving them each a fierce look. ‘I will follow you, whether you agree to this or not,’ he told them.

It was a foolish act – foolish, and so very brave. Thorin opened his mouth to deny him yet again, but with a start he realised he could now see the resemblance between Drogo and Bilbo clearly now - the hobbit’s determination and resolve bringing out the family likeness, that particular brand of unwavering stubbornness that was so characteristic of the Bilbo Thorin had known. Seeing an echo of it on Drogo’s face made something twist inside his chest painfully.

‘Very well,’ said Thorin, ‘you can come. But we can’t afford the slightest delay. If you slow us down, we _will_ leave you behind,’ he said, not unkindly.

Drogo nodded, stubbornness giving away to relief. He offered no thanks, but instead turned to his saddle once more. His hands fumbled on the clasps, and Kíli and Fíli took pity on him, both of them dismounting for a moment to help him with the task.

Thorin lead his horse out of the field and onto the road. He did not go far, and paused at the crest of a hill, looking out to the South, to where the land levelled out and became rocky and uneven. Khael came to stand beside him, as close to the horse as she could without spooking it.

‘A monumental task lies ahead of you,’ said someone beside him, and Thorin didn’t need to turn to confirm who it was.

‘Yes,’ he said to the pale ghost. She was so tall that she and Thorin could converse almost on the same level without the need to dip his head to speak to her.

‘You may be leading them to their deaths,’ she said, and Thorin saw her glance behind them, to where Fíli, Kíli and Drogo were all getting ready to leave.

‘Not if I have any say in it,’ said Thorin. He could feel the anger burning under his skin – it had died down while they had dealt with other things, like the embers of a fire being banked, but now it was returning full-force, growing hotter with sharp breath of air that filled his lungs.

The woman hummed and considered him with bright grey eyes.

‘Why?’ she said, ‘why chase after him? Why risk life and limb for the Bilbo of this world? You do not know him. By all accounts, you owe him nothing.’

‘Because I must,’ said Thorin.

‘Honour, again, Durin’s son?’ she said, but Thorin gave a short, sharp shake of his head.

‘No. I do this because no matter where he is or whatever has happened to him, in every world I will come for him. Because he is still _Bilbo_ , and that alone means he is worth risking my life for.’

She might have smiled at this, but Thorin wasn’t sure. When he turned to see, she was already gone.

Their path was set. His heart beat out a rhythm of unwavering resolve and fierce anger, and his hands longed to take up Orcrist once more and slay the creatures that had dared to enslave a peaceful people. Khael beside him stepped forward, looking out over the plains. As Thorin watched she threw back her head and howled, her voice high and piercing, the sound carrying out over the landscape, a battle-cry and a promise all in one.

Lukhudith and Nârù soon joined their voices to hers in song, weaving their calls around the howl. Kíli and Fíli urged their horses forwards, to stand next to Thorin, Drogo following on behind, and when Thorin looked to his nephews he saw his own determination reflected on their young faces.

 _Hold on, Bilbo_ , thought Thorin. _We’re coming for you._


End file.
